There was a gradual creep of cloud overhead, but much of the rain had already fallen on the higher slopes to the west. The agricultural landscape rose and fell in languid slopes, like a child's meandering attempt at a straight line. A two-cart road curved through a tartan of sallow green, greyish-yellow and dun; the field-boundaries marked by hut or heaped stone. Much of the ancient forests had been felled for man's cultivation, though isolated clumps of trees still grew amidst the farmland. Shepherd's huts built in the antiquated beehive shape stood guard over scattered arrays of livestock.
The surroundings were so quiet and unassuming that it seemed impossible to imagine them riven by war. This thought occurred to Alistair as he scraped red clay from his boot after dragging yet another windblown tree from the road. Before clambering back into the cart, he took a searching look at the arling that encircled them: naught but typical farmland. The middle part of Ferelden lacked the climatic mountainscapes and plunging valleys of the west and south: the landscape was more subdued, the peaks and troughs gentler, the colours muted. It was less dramatic, but more harmonious; and the further north they travelled from the diseased lesion of Ostagar, the more difficult it was to believe that there really was a Blight.
"Flo," he said drily, hoisting himself back into the moving cart as Leliana nudged the the mule forward. "Hey, Flora. Fine weather for a Darkspawn invasion!"
The bird-Morrigan let out an irritable squawk, inching several inches along the rail. Flora looked up from his hole-ridden sock, a needle trailing thread between her teeth.
"Eh? Oh."
She put down the mending and took a slow view of the scenery that rolled in all directions around them. Nostalgia for her northern home jabbed her belly like the prick of a sea urchin: she missed the rough-hewn cathedral of the cliffs and bleak sweeps of stony beaches; she missed the harsh weathering of the landscape as the sea gnawed away at the coast.
"It looks nice," she offered through clamped teeth, needle bobbing with each word.
"Too ' nice'," her brother-warden replied grimly, leaning against the rail and eyeing the bare stubble of a freshly-plowed field. "No one out there is going to believe us that there's a Blight. They'll think us mad. I bet Mac Tir is telling the Landsmeet that it was just a few Darkspawn swarming to the surface, and that the Wardens exaggerated the threat."
Flora took the needle out of her mouth and anchored it in the sock, setting the clump of wool to the side.
The Landsmeet are some sort of council, aren't they? I overheard a conversation about them in the Circle once.
Yes. Well remembered.
"The Landsmeet don't need to believe us," she said, eyeing the back of the Qunari's head as he marched before them. "Nor does anyone out there -" she waved a hand vaguely towards the fields. "We just need the mages, the dwarves, the elves; and we don't have to prove nothin' to them. They promised to help us."
Flora patted her breast and heard the reassuring rustle of the treaties, dry and papery against her skin.
"The people will believe when the Darkspawn hordes ravage their towns and slaughter their loved ones," added Leliana ominously from the front of the cart. "The Maker does not like His warnings ignored."
It was a good thing that Morrigan was in the form of a raven, and so unable to deliver the scathing observation that must have blazed within her avian skull. Slightly open-mouthed Flora gazed at the archer's lean back, the sinewy line of muscle defined against her tunic. Herring was not a pious place - there was scant time for it - and the Circle paid lip service to the Chantry for the benefit of the Templar attendants. She had never met anyone so candid about their devotion before; who professed their faith loudly and with utter assurance.
Alistair's attention had also been caught by the zealous response. He too looked at Leliana, seeing the steely length of her spine and the quivering fervour of her clutch on the reins.
Hm, he thought to himself, grimly.
They made good time, following the red-stained way until the light waned and it was no longer safe to travel. In usual times, the Redcliffe arling boasted roads that were clear and free from debris; some sections even lit with lanterns hung from wooden-posts. Yet these were strange times, the arl was sick and the roads had been neglected for months. When the mule narrowly avoided a pothole the size of a cook-pot, Leliana suggested that they make camp for the night.
The cart stopped in the hollow between two hills, a short distance from the road and near the soft gurgle of a buried stream. A string of bare-branched trees provided shelter from a breeze that showed no sign of abating.
Thanks to the bard and her assortment of goods, the company was able to make a proper camp for the first time. Morrigan did little to help construct the tents, but deigned to light the campfire once some branches had been correctly arranged. The tents were no more than a length of plain canvas slung over poles, yet infinitely preferably to sleeping in hayricks, or half-crumbled structures.
The Qunari turned a sour eye over their provisions, stalking off into the meagre woods to seek out his own supper. Flora had gone to investigate the narrow stream, hopefully clutching her improvised hook and line.
Alistair listened to his sister-warden splashing around in the shallows; hidden from view by the slope of the land. He then turned his attention to Leliana, who was sitting near the fire and methodically peeling the gloves away from her fingers. He had never seen anyone manage to sit elegantly cross-legged before, but the bard managed it with laudable ease.
"I'm sorry that I did not bring enough tents with me," she said, glancing at the three erected around the fire. "I was unsure how many would be accompanying us. I can share with Flora, if you wish to share with the Sten."
"His name is Sten? Actually, wait, never mind." Alistair shook his head. "I'll be sleeping with Flora - next to Flora," he clarified hastily, feeling his skin prickle under her curious stare. "Morrigan finds her own place to sleep - probably in some cold and slimy hole - so you won't have to share with… Sten, was it?"
"I thought that you two weren't lovers?" enquired Leliana, working through a fraying braid of hair. "There's no need to be discreet. I was never a sworn and cloistered priestess. I am worldly."
She allowed herself a wistful half-smile, fingers motionless for a moment.
"We aren't lovers," repeated Alistair patiently, grateful that this time, the blush had stayed below his collar. "But when we were in the Warden camp, back in Ostagar, we shared a tent. It's just - it's just the way it used to be. Duncan - our commander - said… "
He trailed off, distracting himself with the fire. It was not burning evenly and was in danger of collapsing; he nudged the larger branches around with a stick until it settled back into place. A gleaming flurry of sparks rushed upwards, briefly illuminating the bare branches before dissipating. Leliana watched him, her thoughtful eyes deepened to navy in the twilight.
"Anyway," Alistair continued, a glimpse of the woman's prayer beads shaking loose a memory. "I have a question for you, lay sister."
The bard raised an eyebrow: ask.
"How do you feel about mages?"
The laugh emerged from Leliana's throat in a crystalline flurry of notes. Somewhere in the hollow of the hill, they could hear Flora splashing around and muttering darkly to herself.
"Not mages like the witch - I think we all know how we feel about her," Alistair continued drily, glancing towards the submerged stream. "But harmless ones, like my sister-warden. She's not dangerous, she's a healer."
"Ah." Leliana smiled, fastening a sliver of leather around the newly tied braid. "You are worried that I will preach damnation at her when we break our fast, or summon Templars when we arrive at Redcliffe."
Or stick an arrow in her throat when she least expects it, thought Alistair, the blood running cold in his veins as he recalled the bard's unfaltering, needlepoint aim.
"I do not share the Chantry's view on mages," she replied, letting the slender braid slip from her fingers. "I have known many, and some were better souls than me. Your sister-warden spent last night mending those who were poor and desperate, and asked for nothing in return. What could be more pleasing to the Maker than charitable works?"
"Right." He eyed her for a moment, then nodded. "Good. I'm… glad to hear it."
Flora reappeared then, empty handed and sulking. She collapsed onto the cold grass beside Alistair, sinking gloomily inside the loose grey folds of her coat.
"Freshwater fish," she grumbled in response to his raised brow. "Southerner freshwater fish. They don't act like fish ought to."
"What do you mean?" he asked, looking at the profile of her fine-boned, frowning face.
"They're more wilful."
He laughed, which was the wrong response. Flora shot him a dark look, then hunched over her knees and glowered into the fire. Leliana, who had not yet been exposed to the spectrum of their mender's eccentricities, blinked. Still, a consummate professional, she swiftly arranged her features back into the mask of bland pleasantness; adding several strips of salted beef to the skillet. For several minutes, the only noises came from the dancing fire, accompanied by the soft, rustling concert of a wood at night. Somewhere within the isolated clump of trees, Morrigan had made her home within the hollow of a trunk; or perhaps curled up in an abandoned nest.
"Hey, Flo." Alistair turned his attention from the hissing strips of beef. "The Qunari's name is Sten."
As though summoned, the Qunari himself emerged from between the bare treetrunks; bearing two dangling rabbits and the usual scowl. Years spent in a cohesive military unit had conditioned the Qunari to contribute to party endeavours, even when the company was less than desirable.
"STEN," squawked Flora with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, delighted that at least one mystery had been solved. "Sten!"
Sten shot her a look of disgust, then ignored her. One of the rabbits came coursing towards the fire; by the time that Alistair's hand rose, Leliana had snatched it whip-quick from the air. Alistair was delighted at the prospect of both salted beef and rabbit for dinner. He looked around for a knife, but the lay sister had already produced a most unholy looking blade from her jerkin. The sharpened steel flashed like a silverfish darting through a stream of light.
"Do you want to sit with us?" Flora asked the Qunari, as Leliana set to work skinning and jointing.
"No."
Flora felt a twinge of nostalgia for Herring, where no was heard thrice as often as yes. She reached down and pulled off her wet boots, propping them in front of the fire. Beside her, Alistair had his sword resting across his thighs, sharpening the steel with a small whet.
The soft sibilant scrape of stone against metal was strangely comforting, accompanied by the snap and crackle of the fire. The naked trees allowed a good view of the surrounding fields; the rural patchwork loaned a milky flux by a low-hanging moon. Somewhere nearby, hidden in the moss, the submerged stream gurgled like a newborn. The scent of roasted rabbit drifted up with the smoke; charred and visceral.
An owl called to its mate as Leliana portioned out the meat, sliding the chunks onto plates produced from a small, lockable chest. The plates were weighty: moulded from good-quality silver and their rims engraved with entwined fleurs-de-lys. There was a carved pattern at their centre, raised just enough to be discernible to the touch. Until the plate was cleared of food, the carving remained hidden.
I think that this is the most expensive thing I've ever held, thought Flora as she took the plate, holding it gingerly with the tips of her fingers. I can't concentrate on my food. I might drop it.
It's a plate.
It's probably worth more than Herring!
Beside Flora, Alistair was devouring his rabbit with notable enthusiasm. Despite her failure to catch any fish, she was pleased to see her brother-warden so content. He caught her smile from the tail of his eye and grinned; brushing a stray drip from the broad jut of his chin.
"Are you laughing at me? I can't help my ravenous appetite."
"I'm happy that you're happy," she replied honestly, carefully setting her plate down and looking around for the waterskin she had filled from the stream. The campfire was so bright that the world around seemed darker by contrast; they could have been a lantern-lit ship encircled by the black mass of the ocean. On the western horizon, the distant shore of Lake Calenhad caught the moonlight like spilled oil.
Alistair felt the broad grin relax into a smile; his gaze lingering on his sister-warden as she sat cross-legged on the grass. The man's coat swamped the neat, compact proportions of her frame; she had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. The firelight picked out filaments of copper in her hair; lines of light tracing through the untidy braid. He wanted to ask her if Duncan's spirit ever appeared to her in the arcane maelstrom of the Fade; and, if so, whether he took the form of intangible shade, or a man's solid flesh and bone.
"Who do you have?" he asked, shaking the disconcerting thought from his head as he mopped his plate clean with a rag of sourdough.
She blinked at him. "Eh?"
Alistair held up the plate, showing the profile of a man etched into the silver base. The engraving was skilful; the hawkish features distinct.
"I've got Kordillus Drakon. What does the writing say? 'I channel Scattered Light into Order'."
"Oh." Flora retrieved her own plate from the grass and tilted it towards the fire. Sepia light rippled across the silver, as though the flame had become liquid and spilled onto the dish. A bent figure clutched his abdomen, crudely depicted on the plate's face.
"I don't know who that is. And I can't read it."
"Let me see." Alistair, veteran of a decade in a monastery, peered at the plate. "That's Lesym Wyne, the Loyal. 'I speak His Word'"
Flora looked closer, her brow furrowing.
"What's wrong with his belly?"
"He was disemboweled by Avvar tribesmen," interjected Leliana, casting a fond look at the plate. "Whilst on a mission to convert them."
A wide-eyed Flora put the plate gingerly back down on the grass. Alistair snorted, stretching out the muscled length of his frame as he leaned back on his elbows.
"Guts hanging out, lovely," he remarked, raising an eyebrow. "Just the thing to put you in the mood for dinner. Who have you got on yours?"
"I always choose my favourite martyr," Leliana said, with a small sigh of satisfaction. "Our Lady Andraste: O, Take Me To Thy Side!'"
The plate depicted an etched nest of curling flame, with only the face and desperate, stretching arms of a figure visible in their midst. Flora shivered, the corners of her mouth turning down. Compassion gave a sigh in the corner of her mind, turning around and resettling like a disturbed cat.
"Gives you an appetite, does it?" Alistair enquired mildly, stacking his plate atop Flora's. "I think I prefer my platter plain and boring."
"Me too," his sister-warden agreed, somberly. "Also I prefer them with trout on them, but the southern fish weren't cooperating."
They retired shortly afterwards, parting into their separate tents. Alistair felt a brief throb of anxiety: would his sister-warden quail at this new intimacy? He and Flora had shared the same canvas before, but with a dozen others snoring loudly beside them. They had slept an elbow's length apart in ruined buildings; airy, open spaces perforated by the wind. Sharing a few feet beneath a discreet veil of canvas seemed a different beast altogether.
Flora, ignorant of the apprehension he had ascribed to her, rinsed out her mouth and crawled into the tent. Their packs were already piled at the near end; blankets and pallet mattresses in a serpentine tangle nearby. Her boots, stiff and smoky from the fire, were left propped outside like inanimate sentries.
"I think your feet are going to stick out," she observed, burrowing into the shadowy nest of blankets like a crab digging through the sand. "They don't make tents for people your length."
"Shit." Alistair, following, had already knocked his tawny head against a pole. "You're right. I'll have to sleep curled up."
Halfway in he paused, bent awkwardly like some old dowager. Flora eyed him, the blankets pulled up to her chin and the vestiges of firelight playing across her face. Alistair was so broad about the shoulder that he seemed to take up the majority of the tent, especially when hovering above her in an awkward half-crouch.
"Eh?"
"There's only one pillow. I'll just - sleep on my arms."
"Share it with me." Flora made room, wriggling several inches to the left. "I ain't got lice, I promise."
Alistair turned himself around - awkwardly - then settled on the pallet. His head was inches from hers on the pillow; he could feel the warmth of her exhalation against his ear.
Flora peered at her brother-warden's profile: the proud jaw, the strong jut of the nose, the hair that had become progressively more dishevelled over the course of the day. Over his right shoulder rose the water-stained slope of canvas; with the two of them, and their packs, there was little room to spare. Firelight punctuated the loosely draped entrance, catching the dapple of alchemical green in his eye.
"Want me to move over more?" she asked sleepily, the words punctuated by a yawn. "My hair is too big. I'll cut it off."
Alistair snorted back a laugh, aware of the others settling down in the tents nearby. Leliana was murmuring to herself several yards away: her prayers muffled by two layers of canvas. He assumed that Morrigan had found some perch in the line of trees beyond their tents; he did not presume to guess at the Qunari's nighttime routine.
"I'm the one taking up all the space," he said, glancing down at his protruding ankles. "At least I'm wearing two pairs of socks."
"Night creatures will nibble your toes," Flora whispered ominously through the shadow. "They'll eat your feet."
Alistair snorted, turning his head towards her without thinking. The breath caught in his throat, snared on a fisherman's hook. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to the exquisite architecture of her face; or if he would remain eternally unbalanced by the rawness of her beauty, like a sudden swift current in the shallows.
"I hope not," he said at last, grateful that the words emerged sounding somewhat normal. "I'm not sure how well I could fight sitting down."
She smiled at him and he had to return his gaze to the seam in the canvas overhead, swallowing hard.
While he recovered his composure, Flora fidgeted beneath the blanket. It had been a long day, but she found herself still restless; thoughts rattling around the corners of her skull like clay marbles. In an attempt to distract herself, she focused on the array of noise beyond the canvas. The fire between the tents was chewing through the last of its fuel. It hissed and spat with vehemence, as though aware that its time was almost spent. Accompanying it was the soft, melodic murmur of Leliana's reverence. Flora could not understand what the lay sister was saying; it might have been Orlesian, or an archaic verse of Kingstongue.
I think we've accomplished a lot today, she thought to herself, feeling Alistair shift position beside her. We've gained two new allies and a cart of supplies, thanks to Sister Leliana. It's lucky that she wanted to join us.
Yes. How... fortunate that the woman experienced a prophetic dream to coincide with your arrival. A dream that strongly encouraged her to assist you.
It took Flora several moments to infer the meaning.
Oh! But she thinks that was a vision from the Maker.
Yes.
But it was from you?
Yes.
Isn't that a bit… sneaky?
Ingrate!
She could feel her general-spirit's disapproval as a clammy stripe of seaweed settling on the back of her neck.
I am grateful! Grateful for Lady Leliana, and her cart of helpful things, and her bow, and her… set of unappetising plates. It's just-
?
Never mind. What's happening in Lothering? Are people leaving?
But her spirits had fallen wilfully silent. Flora sighed, then pulled the coat more tightly around her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she waited patiently for the shadowy anchor of sleep to drag her down through the Veil.
AN: The plates with the Chantry martyrs are inspired by a set of 16th century goblets I once saw with different saints carved on them! Kordillus Drakon was the man who founded the official Chantry (technically not a martyr, but I headcanon he worked himself/stressed himself to death in the process of creating it!), and Andraste is the most famous one obviously. I made up Lesym Wyne, though, I couldn't find any other named Chantry martyrs (though I didn't have time to do huge research so please correct me if I'm wrong!)
I love writing on the road/camp scenes! This is an added bit - the original story had them travelling from Lothering to Redcliffe in one day, oops! On foot as well, since I only gave them a pack mule in the original. So they must have been sprinting the entire way lol.
I also love it when Sten ignores Flora, or looks at her in disgust! I don't know why I find it so funny. I think it's because male characters are naturally disposed to be nice to her due to her appearance, but Sten just finds her ridiculous/annoying, which is refreshing and really fun to write lol! Also, I'm not happy at the fact that my phone autocorrects male to Male, but not female to Female - wtf?!
Thank you for the reviews! So much. I do barely get time to write these days so I'm a lot slower and crappier at responding. It feels like there aren't enough hours in the day!
also looking back at my chapters, I realise there's a total divergence between the style of the story content (serious, trying to sound like an actual writer!) and my author's notes (LOL wtf omg haha! im 12! Not really, but that's the impression lol!. I think I exhaust my brain when I'm writing the content, so I have 0 brain cells left when I'm writing the author note at the end haha I hope it's not too annoying!
I wanted to incorporate more marine themed references too as a nod to Flora's character! Hopefully I haven't gone OVERBOARD with them (!;D)
