The Lothering guards dared not venture too far from the town's borders; the sprawl of the refugee camp to the south required (in their opinion) a constant supervisory presence. They also had no desire to argue with the volatile lady Leliana, nor with the vast hulking figure of the Qunari easily keeping pace with the cart. The captain called off the pursuit at the juncture of the northern and western roads; watching the Wardens and their companions shrink into the distance.
The cart and its passengers continued at leisurely pace along the earthen track. It was turning into a day for good fortune: the sun had finally mustered the energy to disrobe its cloak of cloud and the wind had blown the rain towards the Wilds. The sky was a faded blue; the air had the cold, crisp bite of an apple. Fields, still stubbled from the last harvest of the season, lined the road on both sides. A scattering of bare-branched trees stood out like pencil scratches against a parchment sky.
Flora, wedged between crates in the back of the cart, waited until a diminishing Lothering was the size of her thumbnail. Deciding that pursuit was now unlikely, she cleared her throat to gain the attention of her companions.
"Alistair," she announced, changing her mind about standing up as the cart lurched over a pothole. "Lady Lel - Leliana."
"Just Leliana, s'il vous plait."
"This!" Flora flailed her hand proudly to the side. " This is our newest friend, Aspen. He's agreed to help us fight the Darkspawn."
The Qunari's lip curled with derision. As the seven-foot tall warrior had predicted, he easily kept pace alongside the cart. He did not look at Flora as she spoke; the small, reddish eyes focused on the road ahead.
"I am not your friend ," he enunciated in the deep, measured cadence of his homeland. "And I am not Aspen . The only correct part of your statement was the latter: I will assist you in your endeavour to end the Blight."
"What should we call you then?" Flora asked, and was ignored.
Leliana cast a swift, appraising glance ahead: the road was clear and the platter-flat landscape allowed for no lurking threat. Letting the reins rest in her lap, she turned around fully and gazed at the ash-coloured warrior. Even clad in simple leathers and lacking a weapon, the Qunari would have dominated any foe in single combat with laughable ease.
"How fascinating," she murmured, face alive with interest. "Are you a follower of the Qun, or a tal-vashoth?"
A lip curled in derision; the eyes narrowed to heated red points.
"Vashedan! I am no heathen. It was the word of the Qun that instructed me to break my penance and follow this... creature."
He gestured to Flora, who was evidently the creature in question. Flora had no idea what they were talking about, listening to the unfamiliar exchange with her mouth hanging in confusion. Alistair, who possessed a little more knowledge about the races of Thedas, suppressed a groan.
"Great," he breathed in Flora's ear, leaning his head to close the distance in height. "We've somehow managed to pick up two religious zealots in the span of a day. We might as well call our cause a crusade and be done with it."
"Eh?" Flora had no idea what her brother-warden was talking about. There was no time to clarify; since the Qunari had now turned his burning-ember stare on her. She sat up a little straighter, feeling her teeth rattle in her head as they lurched over another pothole.
"Take me to your commander," he instructed, with the practised assurance of one used to giving orders that were obeyed without question. "We must discuss how best to preserve this nation."
Flora felt her heart sink several inches in her chest, as though her lungs had become saltwater and unable to bear its weight. The broad muscle of Alistair's arm tensed against her elbow.
"Our commander is dead," she said softly, when it became clear that he would not speak. "He… he was killed at Ostagar. It's just the two of us Warden- Wardens left now."
She had been about to say Warden-recruits out of habit, but changed her mind at the last moment. From her practical point of view, Warden-recruits had only been an accurate reference when there had existed a hierarchy of junior and senior.
The Qunari's face was entirely motionless in response: Flora, as a northerner, admired his stoicism.
"It's nice that you want to help us save Ferelden," she said, when it became clear that no reply was forthcoming. "What should we call you, if it ain't Aspen?"
He ignored her question, responding instead to the assumption that preceded it.
"I wish to keep this nation from being destroyed so that it may be invaded in the future by the armies of Par Vollen, as and when the Qun commands."
Alistair let out an incredulous half-laugh; even Leliana hid a delicate snort behind elegant fingers.
"Hm," replied Flora, doubtfully. "I see. "
Are you sure you wanted me to break him out of the cage? A murdering invader?
Yes.
Really?
Yes.
REALLY, though?!
Yes, you tiresome child.
He's definitely meant to be on our side? Not…. the Darkspawn's?
Indeed.
But we're the good ones. An invading murderer seems like they ought to be… one of the bad ones.
Good and bad are mortal concepts.
Flora realised that Alistair was talking to her, and refocused her attention on the corporeal world. Leliana had reluctantly returned to steering the mule around a series of potholes, a gleam in her eye. The Qunari had also decided that there was no need to continue the conversation, striding purposefully ahead. The shoulders canted imperceptibly to one side, as though still bearing the weight of a absent weapon. Every so often, his sword-arm would twitch in a reflexive gesture; each time, the motion was impatiently arrested.
"We've certainly gathered an… unusual party of companions," Alistair was saying, shifting position against the wooden rail of the cart. The space between the crates and packs was so restrictive that he had to fold up the considerable length of his frame to sit; the discomfort alleviated by the fact that he was sharing space with lunch .
"A Qunari, a priestess- " Flora still did not quite understand the concept of a lay-sister- "a Witch of the Wilds, a mender, my spirits, and a…"
She trailed off, eyeing him thoughtfully from behind a crate stacked with sourdough loaves.
"There's nothing peculiar about you," she said, after a contemplative moment. "You're the most normal one out of all of us."
There was an infinitesimal pause and then Alistair laughed, swiftly averting his gaze to the pale wash of the heavens overhead. Instead of responding to Flora's proclamation, he diverted her deftly along a tangent with well-practised ease.
"It's hardly an army, is it? I'm not sure the Archdemon will lose any sleep over our merry little band."
"We've doubled in size over a week," she replied, relatively confident with her numbers up to twelve. "Ooh! If we keep doubling in size every week, how many people will we have by trout season?"
"Trout season?"
"Spring-ish?"
Alistair thought for a long moment, brow furrowing into hard lines. Eventually, a short, helpless laugh slid from his throat and he raised a hand in defeat. Neither of the young Wardens were particularly academic.
"I have absolutely no idea," he admitted, cheerfully. "I'm not very good at arithmetic. Lessons were never a strong point for me, I always wanted to be outside."
"At least you can read," pointed out Flora, beadily. "I can't even tell which way we're going."
They had reached a divergence; a signpost leaned across the crossroads like a wounded man. One wing of wood was labelled: Lothering; opposite was Redcliffe. There was nothing to the north save for a small and unassuming lake. To the south, in faded, oddly poignant letters: Ostagar.
Flora leaned over her brother-warden with an ease borne of all they had endured together: Ishal, the death of Duncan, the destruction of the Wardens and their ensuing isolation. As expected, the letters on the sign made no sense to her. They also seemed to squirm about; turning upside down and boldly rearranging themselves.
"I can't read none of it," she said, wishing that she had paid more attention in her Circle classes. "Which way is Redcliffe?"
Alistair did not need to refer to the sign, nor consult the map rolled up in its case. The soil was guide enough: the western road was smeared with clumps of ruddy scarlet mud. The earth that bordered the road still bore signs of the last harvest; crimson lines scored the earth like claw marks. It was just as well that the way forward was obvious: he was distracted by the swell of his sister-warden's breast pressed against his arm. Flora was still leaning over his lap, eyeballing the signpost with a vague resentment.
"It's that way," he said, wrenching his mind away. "The soil around Redcliffe is rich in iron. Looks like a battlefield after you plough."
"Is it true that the river below the castle runs red when it rains?" Leliana asked, turning the mule's head westwards. "I heard a story, but I know not if there's any truth to it."
Alistair nodded, uncertain whether he was relieved or disappointed that Flora had settled back down against the side of the cart. She was frowning to herself, winding a slender skein of hair around her fingers.
"I'd say it runs… pinkish . I haven't been back there for a decade though, so you might not want to take my word for it."
The lay sister seemed as though she were about to ask for elaboration; Alistair, who avoided questions on his past like the speckled plague, hastily averted his eyes. Leliana, the corner of her mouth twisting in a half-smile, spurred the old mule westwards.
The condition of any road within Ferelden was dependent on three factors: firstly, its distance from Denerim, secondly, the wealth of the bannorn, arling or teyrnir through which it ran, and thirdly, the attitude of the resident peer. Some lords let their roads run wild; ignoring the encroach of overgrowth until the disgruntled locals took matters, and scythes, into their own hands.
Yet Eamon Guerrin had always been conscientious when it came to the condition of his roads. Aware that he was the most prominent noble in the western part of the nation - and that his territory was crucial for Ferelden's defence, considering their neighbor - he had always personally overseen the maintenance of his thoroughfares. Travelling traders often diverted from the geographically shorter route to take a Guerrin road, aware that it would save them time.
The first indication that all was not well within the arling of Redcliffe was the number of fallen trees strewn before them. Between them, Alistair and the Qunari had hauled at least a dozen from the road; along with several broken fences and an abandoned, overturned cart.
"I don't understand it," the young Warden said in perplexion, clambering back into the wagon after dragging yet another obstacle from the road. "There hasn't been a storm for weeks. Why hasn't Eamon cleared the roads? He's always been strict with keeping them in good condition, it used to drive Isolde half-mad. ' 'Usband, why are you spending coin on paving stones when you should be repairing ze West Tower roof?'"
Alistair then remembered that Leliana was perched at the reins and hastily abandoned the crude attempt at an Orlesian accent.
"The men in the tavern said that he'd been ill," Flora said, trying to remember exactly how they had phrased it. "Maybe he's been too poorly to think about the roads."
She passed her brother-warden the loaf of sourdough he had been working his way through before yet another fallen tree demanded his attention.
"He must have been very ill for a long time," Alistair replied, half-to himself. "Shit. Ah, sorry, lay-sister."
Swearing in the Templar monastery had always resulted in a penance if overheard. Preparing himself for a word of reproval from their zealous new companion, he was astonished when she waved a lean-fingered hand in an ' it's nothing' gesture.
They passed a ruined watchtower, tumbling in a slow cascade of stone as birds flew from the exposed ribs. The farmlands that surrounded Lothering had yielded to the undulating grassland that characterised middle Ferelden. Bare crags of rock broke through the earth, stained a ruddy brown from the iron-rich soil. It was cold, but this was the cost of a bright and cloudless day and so the travellers were content to pay it.
Lunch was taken beside a narrow twist of a stream; a creeping tributary that fed the vast inland sea known as Lake Calenhad. The lake itself was still many leagues away, but they had seen many of its supplementary branches. The Qunari refused food, choosing to stand near the wagon with his eyes fixed on the road ahead, rigid as any Tevinter effigy.
Alistair held his breath when Leliana chose to sit beside them on the damp grass; to his relief, she showed no inclination to pray before eating, or sermonise at them. She had neatly packed away the trappings of her Chantry garb; the phial dangling from her belt now wafted the pungent scent of bow oil instead of incense. The only outer gesture of her faith was the string of prayer beads wrapped around her wrist.
Flora, slightly apprehensive of their zealous new addition, offered her the last of the smoked lay sister accepted it with a grace that could only come from either noble birth or explicit training. She turned her pale blue eyes on the mage; deftly popping a gelatinous pink slice on her tongue.
"I am aflame with curiosity."
Flora looked confused. Alistair saw her complete a swift up-down appraisal of the woman; before coming to the conclusion that there was no part of her on fire. He stifled a laugh, reaching out to remove a dried curl of leaf from the sleeve of his sister-warden's coat.
"You are from the northern coast," the lay sister continued: the low, slightly flat cadence of Flora's voice was unmistakable. "But, which part…? I cannot put my finger on it."
"Herring."
If Leliana was surprised at the unusual name, she hid it well; the composure of her face was maintained flawlessly.
"I do not know it. Who are your liege lords?"
Flora had the answer to this: everyone in Herring knew - and resented - the family to whom they owed taxes. On the first day of autumn, a man clad in royal blue livery would arrive to take a tenth of the profit from the summer's yield. One inflammatory year, he had been assailed by angry villagers wielding rods and boat-hammers; after that, the tax collector was accompanied by armed escort.
"Cuzland," she said, rubbing the fingers not clutching a bread roll in idle circles over her sore knee. "They live in some big house in Hiver. I ain't never seen it, my dad never let me go far from the village. He used to take me out on the boat when the rentsman came."
She took a bite, attention wandering.
"The Couslands," repeated Leliana, softly. "Well, there's a coincidence. There's been some trouble in Highever in recent times, or so the rumours say. I heard some whispers in Denerim. Perhaps nothing more than gossip, though… perhaps not."
But Flora had stopped listening. She was not interested in nobles, nor their families. Cousland was akin to a curse-word in Herring; it stood for the nobles who shared their profit while taking none of the hardship. Instead, her attention had been caught by a sudden ripple in the shadow.
Without advertising her presence, the witch appeared between the naked trees; the arched brow and pursed lip accessories to a general wariness. The yellow cat-eye passed swiftly over Leliana - pausing briefly on the prayer-beads wrapped around the woman's sinewy wrist - and then settled on the Qunari, motionless as the surrounding trunks. The arched brow lifted a fraction higher into the dark hairline.
Flora was so excited to introduce Morrigan to their - not one! but two! - new allies, that she choked on her mouthful of bread and was unable to speak at all. Alistair, eyeing his sputtering sister-warden, dutifully stepped in. It was the first time that they had seen the Wilds woman since they had shared the tavern chamber.
"Morrigan," he said, biting back any snide observation that he might have made as he patted the slender span of Flora's shoulders . "As you've probably noticed, our party has grown by two- "
"Well, 'tis obvious, I am not blind," retorted Morrigan, remaining poised between the tree trunks. "And it is a pity that it has not grown by two thousand; then we might have some chance of ending this Blight."
Alistair wished that he had made the catty remark after all. Morrigan smirked, though she still did not venture beyond the boundary of the trees.
"This is Leliana," he said, forcing neutrality into the introduction. "She's a- a lay-sister, and a…a… "
He trailed off, realising that they knew very little about what Leliana was : except that she was Orlesian by birth but Fereldan by blood, and that her arrows could pin a man by his ear or knock him to the ground. There was an infinitesimal pause before Leliana smiled; unconsciously flexing her shoulders like a snake shedding a skin.
"Before I entered the service of the Maker, I was a bard," she said, soft and wistful. "Of some skill, even if I do say so myself."
Alistair started, eyeing their new companion with a new guardedness. He had heard of bards before: most Fereldan children went to sleep with tales of their exploits ringing between their ears.
"You're a bard?"
"What's a bard?"
Flora had managed to swallow the lump of soggy bread and - eyes watering - interjected with a curious enquiry.
"Courtier," replied Leliana, at the same time that Alistair said, in far more ominous tones: "Spy."
The two looked at one another: she smiled pleasantly, he pursed the handsome lips and frowned. Flora looked between them, absentmindedly tearing the last of her bread between her fingers.
"I don't know what a courtier is either. Are you a spy for General Mac Tir?"
"Or for Orlais?" Alistair added for good measure, though this was far from likely. Even if their capricious western neighbour had heard of the massacre at Ostagar and death of the king - which was likely, given that the news had travelled an equal distance east to Denerim - there was little reason why two unimportant junior recruits should capture their attention.
Leliana spread out her hands, palms facing upwards. The skin was a chorus of contrast: the lean fingers were ringed with sinew and callous, while the wrist was scented with fragrant lotion and the nails kept trim and polished. It was the hand of both a servant and a lady.
"I am no spy," she said, and there was no disassembly in the clear blue stare. "Loghain Mac Tir despises Orlais. He would sooner employ the most inept, bumbling Fereldan over myself."
Alistair glanced swiftly sideways at Flora. Now that he had studied her face, he could see the emotion beyond the mask of cool, eternally composed indifference. There was a faint line etched across her forehead, set just above the gap between her brows.
"Eh," Flora replied after a moment, with the usual staunch practicality. "Can't prove nothin' with words. If you're telling the truth, that's fine. If you are a spy…" she put the last of the bread into her mouth and spoke through her chewing, "then you can report all that we're doing to General Mac Tir so that he knows his days are numbered."
Alistair hid a smile. Leliana bowed her head in acquiescence; retracting her hands.
Morrigan, however, had grown bored of the interrogation. Her attention had been captured by something far more enthralling: the vast, inert figure beside the wagon. This drew her from the trees: she drifted across the clearing like smoke, yellow eyes alight.
"What's this?"
"Aspen," said Flora, then caught himself. "No, not Aspen. He won't tell me his name."
"I care not for his name," Morrigan replied scornfully, coming to a halt several yards from the Qunari. Her bare feet sank into the damp earth; mud caked between the crimson-capped toes and between the beads slung around her ankle.
"You ought to recruit more of this sort. Such brute muscle ought to put some fear into the Darkspawn, if indeed they are even capable of such. Fewer loyal Chantry mice - " she cast a contemptuous glance at Leliana, "- and more true warriors."
"I may be a Sten," retorted the Qunari, lip curling. "But I am no mindless brute. I am - was once an advisor to the Arishok."
It was the first time that the man's terse composure faltered; manifesting in the slightest hesitation before the correction. The moment passed in the space between heartbeats, unnoticed by all except the bard. Leliana, who had already scribed much about both young Wardens on the wax tablet of her mind, added a column for the giant swordsman.
"And the Arishok used to call you…" prompted Flora, receiving nothing but a vaguely contemptuous stare in response.
"I have always wanted to meet a Qunari," continued Morrigan blithely, as if nobody else had spoken. "Although I thought that they grew horns from their temples. Did you meet with an accident, or were you born lacking?"
The Qunari eyed her for a moment, then set his back to them; stare trained on the road ahead. Flora was gratified that at least their newest companion was ignoring them both equally.
Lunch had been eaten and the party set out again, mindful that they only had a few hours of sunlight left. The road west was streaked with ruddy clay; large clumps clung to the wheels of the cart and left a bloody trail in their wake. Morrigan now deigned to accompany them more openly, though she avoided conversation by travelling in the bristling, beady-eyed form of a raven.
"If the Qunari doesn't give us a name soon," Flora whispered ominously in Alistair's ear as they rolled down the road . "I'm going to call him Gulper Eel."
AN: The funny thing is, Sten has already told Flora his name at least three times! She just misheard "a Sten" as Aspen, lol.
I wanted to make a few things clearer with this rewrite: firstly, making it more obvious that it's a coming of age story for Flora (not in terms of actual age, but in maturity/experience, then I wanted to make them warier of Leliana at first, and I also wanted Morrigan to start off much more hostile before gradually warming up. Haha run on sentence there but I hope it makes sense! I thought it would be a more realistic dynamic than having them all get on quickly.
Thank you for all the kind and lovely reviews! I want to reply to them all individually when I get some time - it's crazy here at the moment, husband is in Seattle for work so I'm looking after the baby on my own, plus the flat is on the market so I have to keep it spotless (with an 8 month old and two longhair cats! Fucking impossible!)
Anyway, this chapter was running on for ages so I chopped it here! I'm trying to keep each one at about 3k ish words.
