As though compensating for the Archdemon's invasion of her dreams earlier that night, Flora's spirits granted her a longer stretch of uninterrupted rest. This meant that, unusually, Alistair woke first; stirring beneath the blankets as the white, apple-flesh hue of a winter dawn shafted through the gap in the canvas. Despite the lumpen bedroll, the faint odour of mildew, and the fact that he had to contort the long limbs of his body to fit within the confines of the tent; he was comfortable enough to reject the idea of getting up at any point in the imminent future. The bare branches of the trees outside were imprinted in silhouette on the canvas, their edges blurred by dawnlight. From somewhere within the array of tangled twigs, a bird repeated a thin and repetitive note. The air hung still as a tapestry outside; the rest of the party were yet to stir.
Usually, Alistair was not keen on silence. It reminded him of morning prayers in the monastery, when two hundred boys would gather in the chapel and suffer to be quiet for a candlelength; two eagle-eyed Chantry elders patrolling the aisles. Any whispering during the contemplation - or even an ill-timed rumble of the stomach - would be cause for discipline.
Yet now he took a deep breath in the stillness, inhaling the brittle air of dawn. Wrenching his mind from the dream that had woken him, he dropped his gaze to where Flora lay sleeping at his side. She was tangled in the furs as though she had tried to fight them; though her face had the serene composure of a maiden feigning sleep for a painter. The flesh between the hollow of her throat and her collarbone was dappled with a medley of mellow light; like stained glass cast in lemon and eggshell. Her small hand was still clasped tightly in his, their fingers latched.
Alistair found himself suddenly lightheaded, and realised that he had forgotten to exhale. He let the air out in tentative increments, determined not to wake her. As the youth watched his sister-warden sleep, his thumb meandered across the back of her hand, settling at the root of her index finger. Unconsciously - his attention was still on her face - he began to stroke the knuckle, tracing slow circles around the bone. She did not stir, cheek pressed into her hand; immersed deep in slumber.
"Bonjour!" The lay sister thrust her upper body between the loose folds of canvas. Her expression was deliberately casual, though the eyes were bright and keen with curiosity. In a heartbeat she had surveyed the interior of the tent, noting that although the young Wardens were close as corn and husk, he was fully dressed and she was clad in the shirt and smallclothes that she had settled down to sleep in.
Leliana looked disappointed that they were merely holding hands; her lips pulling together as though someone had tugged on a drawstring.
"Morning," said Alistair drily, as Flora pulled the blanket over her head and moaned. "Time for dawn prayers, is it? I didn't realise we were keeping Chantry hours."
Leliana had the good grace to laugh, lowering her gaze demurely. The wedge of winter sky visible behind her was clear and unbroken; it looked to be another fine, albeit cold day.
"Forgive me for my enthusiasm," she replied, winsome. "I am eager to see Redcliffe and its castle. I have read so much about the Guerrin family."
"It's not that special," Alistair countered, looking down at the blanketed lump that was his sister-warden. "Though I suppose it does look quite dramatic if you're seeing it for the first time - the castle," he clarified. "It's built- "
"On a great promontory of rock known as Idelson's Fall," Leliana finished, promptly. "Named for the fifth arl of Redcliffe."
Alistair eyed her. "Well, aren't you a font of knowledge. Did you swallow a history book for desserts last night?"
The bard laughed and demurred a response.
Flora emerged from beneath the blanket, no longer able to ignore the conversation above her head. She sat up, hair a volcano mid-explosion, and ground her knuckles into her eyes.
"Hnghh- "
"Morning. Sleep well?" Alistair asked, and there was a latent meaning to the question.
"Mm," she replied drowsily, blinking as the dawn came into focus around her. "Yes. I dreamed that I fished up a talking octopus. And it tried to tell me its life story but I killed and ate it."
No Archdemon.
The Wardens emerged from their tent into a cool-toned watercolour morning; the sky an alkaline blue and the grass stiff with hoarfrost. The Qunari's tent had already been dismantled and rolled with utilitarian efficiency; Sten himself was nowhere to be seen. Morrigan was standing beside a chattering fire, looking distinctly pleased with herself. In deference to the colder temperature, she wore a rust-coloured fur over her shoulders. It smelt raw and bloody ; shreds of muscle still clung to the inside of the pink skin. Instead of emerging from a tanner's workshop, this hide had been brutally - and recently - extracted from the flesh by tooth and claw.
"I see some poor fox got on your bad side this morning," Alistair observed, retrieving his boots. "The freshly blooded look suits you."
"Such a droll 'wit'," retorted Morrigan archly, stepping aside and flailing a long-nailed hand towards a spitting pan. "I have done you a favour and begun your breakfast. I am not sure that Mother would have been so keen for me to accompany you if my only role was to start your fire each morning."
"I'm sure the Darkspawn horde will catch us up soon enough," replied Alistair, eyeing the contents of the pan dubiously. "Or more of Mac Tir's hired idiots, and then you can unleash your wrath on them. Hey, you haven't added anything strange to these sausages, have you?"
If Morrigan had been a bird, her feathers would have stood on end in indignation.
"I certainly have not," she hissed, looking ready to knock the pan into the flames. "Forgive me for expecting some gratitude!"
Flora, used to being the sole voice of reconciliation during Herring's frequent fights and feuds, interceded.
"Thank you very much," she said, nudging Alistair discreetly with an elbow. "You must have got up early to do all that. I found you some more nettles down by the lake. For your tea."
Flora had noticed the witch steeping leaves in hot water to create a tisane ; though Morrigan had never spoken of it directly. From the crook of Morrigan's eyebrow, she had not realised that her morning habit had been observed. She accepted the bundle of nettles without a word.
"Doesn't it sting your throat when you drink it?" Flora asked, through a mouthful of sore fingers.
"No," Flemeth's daughter replied after a moment, eyeing her thoughtfully. "The nettles lose their bite after they're boiled."
As Morrigan had indignantly declared, the sausages had nothing added to them save for a pinch of sage. The sun, a glacial disc against a wash of duck-egg blue, inched higher as they ate; though a misting cloud was already making incursions on the horizon. After they had eaten, Leliana asked if anybody wished to accompany her down to the shore to wash. Flora, nostalgic for the days where she had bathed in the open ocean, readily agreed. Morrigan, who did not want to wash in frigid water but also did not want to be left alone with Alistair beside the fire, responded by contorting herself into a crow and winging upwards.
Alistair occupied himself with sorting out the tent that he and Flora had slept in; rolling up the bedrolls and slinging their packs into the cart. As he balanced a precarious stack of blankets in his arms, a skein of long red hair detached itself from the pillow and clung to his shirt. He caught it with an impulsive finger, then swore under his breath as the rest of the bedding tumbled to the ground.
Leliana returned just as Sten appeared between the trees, his makeshift spear balanced on a shelflike shoulder.
"There are no enemies in the vicinity," the Qunari stated bluntly, depositing the sharpened fence post. "I do not understand why - given your circumstances - you have not set up a system of watches and patrols."
"We didn't really think about that," said Alistair, abashed. "I suppose you're right. I'll mention it to my… to Flora when she gets back. Where is she?"
This was directed towards Leliana, who had just retrieved an enamelled comb from her satchel.
"Following," the lay sister replied airily, sliding the prongs through the vibrant copper. "She was busy removing all the bodily hair below her eyebrows for some Maker-known reason: I think the word she used was, 'descaling' herself?"
"Like a fish," said Alistair, wryly. "Sounds about right."
Fortunately, the imminent prospect of Redcliffe preoccupied much of his attention; or else his mind would have followed Leliana's response to an intensely distracting conclusion.
"Alistair."
He startled, glancing upwards. The lay sister had finished combing her hair and was now lacing it in a pattern of intricate braids. She had no need of a mirror; her fingers wove the slender strands with habitual ease.
"Hm?"
"Did you hear anything… unusual last night?"
The melancholy song of battle: drifting intangible as mist along the cliffs. Alistair had convinced himself that it was his imagination; that tiredness and the residual panic over his sister-warden's nightmare had manifested conflict in his mind.
"Yes," he said, then felt a stab of doubt. "Maybe? I thought I heard fighting, coming from the south, but… I don't know, I assumed I'd imagined it."
Leliana's shapely brows rose but she did not reply; turning her face towards the horizon, towards Redcliffe.
A barefooted Flora came dripping up the grassy slope shortly afterwards, her hair hanging in a sodden mass to her waist. Sinking down beside the remains of the fire, she began to wring out the worst of the moisture. After a few moments, she felt the prickle of Sten's mild disinterest; looking up to see his stare on her.
"That mane is highly impractical for battle," he said, lip curling. "Not only does it draw the eye, but it provides a handhold for the enemy to expose your neck."
"I don't go into battle," came the muffled response, head upside-down before the fire.
"You are a mage."
"Just a mender."
Sten eyed her, the ashen brow furrowing.
"Then why do you not 'mend' the injury to your knee? I observed you limping last night."
Flora emerged from beneath her hair.
"I can't mend it," she replied succinctly, aware that the laconic Sten would not care about the explanation. "I have to live with it. It ain't too bad."
The Qunari tightened his mouth for a moment, then produced something from within his tunic. It was a skein of narrow leather, oiled and supple. He canted his chin abruptly towards her: knee. Astonished, Flora stuck out her leg. The woollen trousers - originally owned by a far taller male - sagged loose; she rolled the end in a bundle above her knee. The joint seemed innocuous enough, pale and curved like the exterior of a seashell. Flora eyed it with faint resentment: it did not seem fair that something should seem well enough on the outside, and yet be less than well within.
On the other hand - the thought was laced with melancholy - it's a reminder of Ostagar. Of the Wardens, lying broken on the valley floor. Of Dunc -
Stop being so maudlin, you silly child, snarled her general in her ear. You aren't grown enough to wax lyrical. And enough of this girlish infatuation with a man who failed to observe the boundaries of his command.
Flora put her fingers in her ears, although this would do nothing to silence the voice in her head. Fortunately, her general's attention was diverted elsewhere; caught by some passing shade or flicker of memory.
Meanwhile, Sten had not been bothered by her lack of attention - indeed; he seemed to prefer it when she did not speak - and while she had been distracted, he had efficiently wound the leather strap around the weak joint. The band was narrow enough to allow flexibility, yet firm enough to provide support: immediately, yesterday's residual ache was suppressed.
"Oh," she said as he sat back on his haunches, then rose like a mountain thrust from the soil. "Thank you very much."
Sten inclined his head a fraction: if nothing else, he appreciated her plain, meticulous politeness. Flora stretched her leg out, then bent it double; the band moved easily with the flesh.
"Better?" Alistair asked, keeping his eyes averted from her slender calf.
"Mm, yes."
The Qunari began to turn away, then returned his unblinking stare to Flora's face.
"My tent fell down last night," he stated, unamused. "While I was in it."
"Ooh! Oh dear."
"I will assemble it myself in the future."
Their camp was dismantled in short time: Alistair crushed the remnants of the fire beneath his boot, the last of the cooking apparatus was bundled into the cart, and they were on the road again. The cloud had settled against the winter sky: a filmy wash of grey with ragged patches of whitish yellow where the sunlight had broken through. Lake Calenhad stretched out like a silver platter; sunk into a basin of ruddy cliffs. Their road followed the contour of the land, meandering south towards the inlet where Redcliffe lay. They met no other travellers; save for a harried crofter pushing a handcart who ignored their greeting.
Alistair, who had fallen into an uncharacteristic silence, elected to drive the cart. He perched on the forward seat, reins in hand, gazing pensively at the road before them. If he remembered any part of the rural landscape that surrounded them, he made no mention of it. Sten, keen to avoid the conversation between the two redheads, walked alongside the mule's head. Morrigan winged her way overhead, wheeling in languid circles
"I set down my lute when I entered the service of the Chantry," Leliana was saying, perched elegantly on a crate in the rear of the cart. "Yet sometimes my fingers move as though the strings were still beneath them. This is what you saw me do, oui?"
She demonstrated with a graceful flutter.
"Yes," said Flora, wedged beside the lumpen mass of Alistair's pack. "Your hands were twitching. I thought you had fiddlewrist, I was going to cure you. Don't they allow lutes in the Chantry, then?"
There had been a small group of mages in the Circle who had formed a musical quartet; two played the lute, one the harp, and the last beat the tabor drum. As a result, Flora could name each instrument; and was astonished to learn that the bard had mastered all of them.
"Only the voice was permitted in the cloisters," Leliana replied, turning her head to admire the sunlight skimming the water. "Though I may see if there is a lute for purchase in Redcliffe village. I do not mean to offend the Maker, but I miss playing music of a more… secular nature."
A mid-morning breeze had sprung up with enthusiasm, chopping the surface of Lake Calenhad into rippled peaks. The unseen channels of air passing through the pines sounded like fractious, whispered conversation, as though their imminent arrival at Redcliffe was the subject of intense debate. The road followed the writhing topography of the lake's shore and Redcliffe lay only a candle-length away.
"Mm," agreed Flora, who had no idea what secular meant. However, the glimpse of silver tucked close into the bard's side had reminded her of a task that she had almost forgotten. "Could I borrow your knife?"
The bard smiled kindly, her blue eyes sparking like magefire.
"Which one?"
If Alistair had been in the usual state of mind, he would have made a comment in the spirit of: Of course the 'lay sister' carries more blades than a knifesmith. Yet he was in a strange mood; the red cliffs and placid inlets of Calenhad had revived old memories and old hurts. He was not sure that he was looking forward to seeing Eamon again, despite the kindness that the arl had shown him for the first decade of his life. He knew for certain that he was not looking forward to seeing the arl's wife; and that she would be equally displeased to see him.
"I want to cut my hair," Flora was saying in the meantime, clutching the pack as the cart lurched over a pothole. "Sten was right: it is too long."
Leliana's smile widened, though a faint indent furrowed itself simultaneously across her brow.
"I would be delighted to assist, if it please you," she replied, with measured eagerness. "When we next stop - for surely you cannot mean to coupe tes cheveux in this lolloping cart? - I could feather in some long layers to frame the eyes, perhaps a side-sweep to the fringe, or a flattering- " "
The lay sister's face contorted itself in silent horror: while she had been rhapsodising, Flora had bent double, anchored the end of her ponytail unceremoniously beneath her muddied boot, and begun to hack through the plump rope of hair like a butchering apprentice with their first carcass. Leliana mouthed, appalled, as uneven skeins of dark red drifted to the floor of the cart. There was almost a foot in disparity between the strands: when Flora next loosed her hair, it would fall in a ragged diagonal from her shoulder blade to her waist.
"Créateur," breathed Leliana faintly, as Flora tied the uneven remnants of her hair in a lopsided knot on the crown of her head. "I do not know what to say. I am dumbstruck like the famous martyr Pellanus."
"Who? It'll grow back the next time I mend," Flora replied, wholly unbothered. "Or shield something. It's really annoying. I wish I was bald."
Alistair snorted to himself from the front of the cart. He could not afford to look around: the track's condition had worsened, with loose gravel and potholes demanding his attention. The autumnal hoarfrost had eroded the surface; though this damage had been sustained over weeks, rather than days. Nowhere was Eamon's absence from the maintenance of his arling more obvious than the deterioration of the roads.
"If I was bald," Flora continued, warming to the idea. "I'd be more streamlined underwater. I could swim like an eel."
The chopping of her hair had clearly whetted her appetite for further modifications. Leliana watched in mild dismay as she sliced off the legs of her overlong woollen trousers at the knee; then set about the sleeves of her coat. Only once Flora's garments had been clumsily hacked down to size did she return the knife, oddly pleased with herself.
The lay sister surveyed her from across the cart: the trailing bun that sat askew atop Flora's head; the ugly woollen coat; the trousers brutally amputated at the knees, both legs a different length. Each limb of her garments was fraying, the slender body entirely disguised within a mass of bulky wool.
"The Maker has blessed you with a face that occurs perhaps once in an Age," the bemused bard said at last, eyeing the bitten fingernails circling the hilt of the blade as it was handed back. "I know that to be prideful is a sin, but you seem to have such… utter disregard for your beauty. May I ask why?"
Flora shrugged a shoulder; the gesture dwarfed by the loose folds of her coat. There were gulls arcing in the sky overhead and she watched them with the baleful, slitted eye of a fisherman guarding a catch.
"Dunno," she replied, vaguely. "It ain't really that useful , is it? It weren't useful in Herring. And they don't care about your face in the Circle, just about… what you know. What you can do. And I didn't know nothing."
Leliana was about to respond when they emerged from the trees and Redcliffe appeared below them like a book opening to reveal an illustrated centrefold. Alistair drew on the reins reflexively and the mule lurched to a halt: all occupants shifting to gain a better view.
The town was a district larger than Lothering; a mismatched jumble of rooftops in red clay and slate. Most of the larger buildings were crowded beside the lakeshore; while smaller workshops and private dwellings clung to haphazard shelves hewn into the ruddy cliff. Stone walls ran everywhere like a child's scribblings. A series of huts and walkways extended out into Calenhad's placid waters; ending in a jetty that sprouted several small boats. A market square near the wood-beamed Chantry was lined with empty stalls.
Presiding over the village, Castle Redcliffe sat like an old and squat king: vast and only partially decayed. It clung to a thrust of stone, accessible by a granite arch of precarious slenderness. The heraldry of the Guerrin dynasty hung from the crenellated walls: banners as vast as bedsheets, emblazoned with a grey keep on a red mound. It was a formidable sight: given the nation's turbulent history, most Ferelden castles were built as fortresses rather than palaces.
It was the largest settlement that Flora had ever seen. She knelt up in the rear of the cart, one palm on the rail to keep her balance, and gazed at the town sprawled below. Alistair, seated at the reins, had fallen very quiet: his back was turned and no one could see his expression.
"Defensible," observed Sten in the usual laconic style, giving a taut nod of approval.
"Idelson's Fall is even more magnificent than I believed," Leliana breathed at last, her eyes greedily scouring the scene. "What a view Arl Eamon must enjoy. Imagine waking every morning and looking out over the whole lake."
"It doesn't sound as though the man has been doing much of that of late."
Morrigan had reappeared beside the cart; brushing stray feathers from her hair as she surveyed the town. "Since, according to rumour, he is ailing and like to die. 'Tis most unfortunate timing, considering current events."
"He's not going to die."
It was the first that Alistair had spoken in an hour, and there was an agitated edge to the words.
"Eamon can't die," the young Warden continued, and it seemed as though he were talking to himself more than the rest of the party. "He's the best candidate for king now that Cailan is dead. He's not got royal blood, but he was Cailan's uncle; he's popular with the Bannorn and the Commons… the Landsmeet would vote for him."
The more he spoke, the more it seemed as though he was trying to convince himself of the fact.
"What are you rambling on about?" interjected Morrigan, eyes narrowed.
Alistair dropped the reins with a fatalistic abruptness, turning towards his startled sister-warden. There was an odd tension constricting his features that she had never seen before; even in the hollow aftermath of their failure at Ostagar.
"Flora?"
She looked at him, her eyes pale and searching.
"I need to talk to you about something."
AN: A bit of a bitty chapter,' I wanted them to actually arrive in Redcliffe but then I saw I'd hit 4000 words and decided to pause, lol. I wanted to evoke the spirit of party banter in this chapter, I love all the little conversations that happen in game between your companions so I wanted a chapter where lots of little snippets of conversations take place. I'm glad that people like my camp chapters haha, i do love writing them. I also love it when Flora's spirits call her out haha
I hope everyone stays safe, the world is a bit of a crazy place at the moment!
Thank you for reading! Oh the chapter name is a reference to the binding on Flora's knee, the Wardens holding hands as they sleep; and Alistair's memories of his childhood in Redcliffe
