Flora was woken the next morning by a shaft of sunlight across her face. She grimaced at the unwelcome intrusion - she was warm, and did not want to move - and tried to ignore it. Sleep remained within reach, its oiled handle had not yet slipped from her fingers. The wavering green-gold light of the Fade still blurred the corners of her eyes; it would take little effort to return to the mossy depths of unconsciousness.
Yawning, she turned her head to the side; and felt the brush of delicate fabric against her cheek. Confused - as a rule, she and expensive things did not mix - Flora opened an eye and felt her heart skitter in alarm: a resentful, embroidered face glowered back at her.
Maferath, Flora recalled after a moment; memories of the previous night unfurling. The tapestry showing Maferath on trial. We used it as a blanket. Because we went to sleep in - where? Where are we?
She opened both eyes, blinking until the chamber came into slow focus around her. The air was punctured with sallow shafts of light; diffused by the dusty glass pas it entered. An early sun had not yet mustered the energy to infuse the world with colour and the Chantry Mother's study was cast in varying hues of grey. The flagstones blended into the stone walls; the contents of the bookshelves were hidden in shadow. The only brightness in the room came from beneath her; Flora looked down at the man who had served as her mattress for much of the night. The tawny skin of his chest was the same earthen shade as a fresh-ploughed field; the golden hair had a brilliance that would put any royal diadem to shame. She thought that he had a certain shine that had nothing to do with magic; as if someone had come along and polished him in the night.
Flora's gaze lingered on her sleeping brother-warden's face. For once, the clear and handsome features were not distorted by a self-depreciating twist of humour. Her eyes wandered from the brutal angle of the jaw, to the proudly jutting nose and then up the wide, unlined brow; as though she were a sculptor taking measurements.
Then, as if her scrutiny had a physical pressure, Alistair opened his eyes. Even before the haze of sleep had cleared, his mouth widened in pleasure. He reached up with easy confidence, cupping her cheek within the callused hollow of his palm.
"Morning," he said softly, thumb tracing the sloping bone below her eye. He wondered if - this time - the arrival of dawn might not mean a return to their daytime formality.
"Morning. I don't want to get up," Flora frowned, mildly appalled at her own laziness. "I'm comfortable."
"Then don't," Alistair replied, feeling her weight shift on top of him. "You're not in Herring. You don't need to bring the… barnacle pots in."
She wondered if he was joking: BARNACLE POTS?
"Lobster pots," she corrected, brow creasing. "Barnacles grow on rocks."
A rope of her hair lay coiled on his shoulder, dark and red as vein-blood. Alistair followed the strand to where it sprouted just north of her ear, one of the many that had escaped her braid during the night.
"We still have things to do," she reminded him, solemnly. "Duties."
The last word was a recent entrant in Flora's vocabulary: inscribed there by the late Warden-Commander. Duncan had assigned Flora her duties in person each morning: giving the excuse that she could not read the rota posted daily to the broken pillar. After a while, she had been able to predict her day before he described it: accompany Alistair at drill; assist in the infirmary; come to my tent and exhale the taint from me so that l can still call myself a man.
Her use of Duncan's vernacular had not escaped Alistair, his thumb still wandering the shell of her ear at a steady pace even as his mind raced. He was aware that he had ventured perilously close to the boundary of friendship the previous night; had perhaps even edged a toe into the unknown and thrilling territory beyond. The realisation that he no longer saw Flora as merely a sister - had he ever? - kindled heat in a dozen places within his body. It had been a startling revelation: the women of his youthful fantasies were warm-eyed, buxom and merry. Flora was none of these things: her beauty was glacial, imperious and unapproachable, her eyes ran as cold and clear as a northern river. He did not think that she even possessed a sense of humour. She spent half her waking hours in a daydream, either talking to those strange spirits or fantasising about the repulsive Herring.
And yet, Alistair thought to himself, feverishly.
But when he sought to examine this new feeling more closely, his conscience summoned the usual reproachful spectre: one that Alistair knew all too well. From the tail of his eye he could see his dead commander standing by the bookshelf, starkly intimidating in the Rivaini armour that he flaunted before those made uncomfortable by it. Duncan's dark eyes burned like coals within a mass of shadow; the gold of his earring glinting like a half-buried coin.
"Duties," Alistair repeated, reluctantly wrestling his mind back to the task at hand. "Infiltrating the castle, you mean. Finding out the cause of the attacks."
Flora did not know what infiltrating meant. She propped herself up on her forearms, careful that her elbows did not dig into his chest.
"I might be wrong," she ventured, hesitant. "But the smell of them - the dead - last night. They didn't smell like death. They smelt like… blood. Blood and magic."
Her spirits gave a flicker of approval. Alistair nodded: he had first set eyes on Flora across a chamber saturated in blood magic, and could recall the cloying scent.
"You think there could be a maleficar in the castle?"
"Dunno." She gave a vague shrug, another strand of hair slithering loose from her braid. "Suppose we'll find out."
"I suppose we will."
Alistair did not want to get up; Flora made no sign that she was going to move. Instead of pushing back the tapestry and rolling off, she shifted position on his chest and yawned again. Her eyes wandered over the leatherbound spines crowding the lowest part of the bookshelf: she could read none of them. Alistair let his hand settle on the small of her back, light as a fallen leaf. He could feel the heat of her skin beneath the shirt; like sun-warmed stone.
The dawn sun, bolder now, was lighting the chamber in parts: the letters on the desk gleamed like a spill of milk, the dyed spines of the leatherbound books a gradient of muted colour. Even the dull flagstones below them had been loaned lustre by the cool light of morning.
"Sorry about - that," Alistair murmured after a moment, while astonished that he did not feel particularly apologetic, nor did he feel embarrassed.
"Eh," replied Flora, fascinated. "It's a morning thing, ain't it?"
Alistair looked at the girl sprawled atop him: his own shirt rucked up in folds around her waist, bare legs tangled casually in his. Her hair was like a broken bottle of Antivan-wine, streams of decadent crimson spilling over him.
"Not entirely, sweetheart," he said quietly, astonished at his own frankness.
The corner of Flora's mouth curved up; her eyes curious. Her fingers brushed through the hair at the top of his head; light as a summer wind between long grass.
"Does this ever lie flat?"
"Only if I wear a hat. Or oil it down."
"A hat." She smiled at him. "Or oiled. Like a mackerel."
Alistair opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a shuffling scrape of leather against wood. Both he and Flora, startled, looked to the nearest bookshelf. Sure enough, it now bore gaps where several texts had been removed; like a mouth missing teeth. The lay sister stood nearby, rifling expertly through a tome with slender, oval-nailed fingers. Although she had cast off last night's bardic leathers in favour of a demure and vaguely clerical robe, Leliana had entered the chamber with the stealth of a spider.
"I've been asked to lead the morning service," she said in lieu of a greeting, glancing swiftly at them over the top of the text. "Since the Chantry Mother is with the Maker. It's a great honour to be asked. Technically a lay sister such as myself oughtn't preside over prayers, but these aren't normal circumstances."
Leliana made no comment on the scene before her: if she was surprised to see the two together, it was well-hidden. Instead, she waved the book at them; her eyes already returning to the cluttered shelf.
"I'm looking for a certain book of psalms: Elegies for Andraste. I'm sure it'll be here somewhere, it's mandatory reading for any devotee of the Maker."
She thumbed through the text, then gave a small huff of impatience and returned it to its brethren. Flora, mustering some energy, rolled off Alistair and ended up on tbe flagstones. She lay belly down on the cold tile and rubbed her eyes with her borrowed shirtsleeves, yawning. Alistair hoisted himself to his elbows, the tapestry dropping to his waist.
Practised in the art of subtle looks, Leliana darted her eye over the pair - despite the intimacy of tangled limbs she had walked in on, they were at least part-dressed. The lay sister allowed herself a moment to appreciate both his bare-chested bulk and her dishevelled, sleepy-eyed beauty; then returned to the task at hand.
"There's a series of verses I almost remember off by heart," she said, sliding another book free and inspecting the contents. "About the banality of sin. The mundanity of evil. And how faith can purge the soul of these prosaic fetters, and allow it to soar unhindered."
Flora wondered if Leliana had transitioned to her native Orlesian: she could understand about one in every four words emerging from the woman's mouth. Pulling the leather band free, she began to wind the unruly rope of hair into a bundle atop her head.
"But perhaps - perhaps, in light of current circumstances - I should make the torment of Andraste the heart of my service," the bard continued, the excitement palpable. "Yes! I could draw a parallel between the foe here and the soulless tormentors of Our Lady. Use them as an allegory."
"Sounds good to me," replied Alistair pleasantly, glancing around for his overshirt. The prospect of being trapped in the Chantry by Leliana's prayer session had successfully roused him from the makeshift bedroll, while also rendering him in an appropriate state to do so. "Nothing like a bit of torment first thing in the morning to put you in a good mood. Flora, you still want my shirt?"
"Eh, you can have it back," replied Flora vaguely, having pushed herself to her knees. She was about to pull it over her head, then came to a sudden realisation. "I don't have anything else to wear. My tunic got clawed."
Leliana's eyes lit up above the book she was perusing.
"I will find you something," she declared, closing the text before sliding it between the folds of her robe. "A petite creature such as yourself should not be swamped in mounds of shapeless fabric. I may have some leathers that might fit you."
Flora looked sceptical: her eyes moving over the bard's sinewy, powerful frame and jutting bust. As befitting an archer, Leliana also stood several inches taller than the average female.
"I don't need anything fancy," she said, hastily. "I'll find something."
Leliana's nostrils flared with the alarm of an Orlesian seamstress. "My friend, from what I have come to observe over the past week - you would be more than happy to garb yourself in sacking if needs be."
"I wish I had a sack," replied Flora, fervently. "Sackcloth is tough and warm. It keeps rain out. They'd fight to the death over a sack in Herring."
Alistair, who was trying not to laugh in the background, interceded before Leliana's face could contort in further horror.
"Keep the shirt, Flo," he said easily, running a thumb over his chin and wondering whether to bother shaving off the night's growth. "I've got another one in my pack."
As Alistair rounded the corner of the desk, he directed a quiet comment towards Leliana: "Besides, if we want to keep everyone focused on the mission - like Bann Teagan, for one - we won't be putting my sister-warden in skintight leather."
And me, he thought grimly. Maker's Breath.
Flora, oblivious, was binding the strap around her knee while peering around the chamber. She was hoping that a sack might have somehow manifested between the bookshelves during the night.
"Oui," conceded Leliana, bowing her head in amused accord. "I see your point."
Just then, a tentative rap pushed the door open further; widening the swathe of light on the flagstones. A boy stood there, freckled and nervy; shifting from one foot to the other. After a moment Alistair recognised him as the stable lad from the tavern.
"Some provisions for the Grey Wardens and their companions," the boy said in a rush of chattering teeth, thrusting forward a weighty hessian sack. "With our thanks."
Flora's eyes lit up: a sack! Leliana sighed as only an Orlesian could.
The pair of young Warden-recruits escaped the Chantry as the lay-sister began her prayer service; the sonorous proclamation of the opening verse cut off abruptly as the door shut behind them. The morning had not lived up to dawn's tentative promise: the sun sulked beneath a low-hanging cap of cloud that cast a long shadow over Redcliffe. Not only was the town made drab and colourless by such unfavourable weather, but it was also being soaked by an apathetic drizzle. Puddles formed like small seas on the bare earth; turning dusty ground into reddish-brown mud. No one else seemed to have ventured beyond their front door: perhaps sleeping off the night's exertions and subsequent excesses.
"Typical," remarked Alistair, squinting up at the unfriendly skies as skeins of the Chant crept beneath the door. "Raining again."
"Ooh," said his sister-warden, secretly delighted: such a chilly and miserable drizzle reminded her of the north coast. "Mm."
"I wonder if the Wardens who ended the previous Blights got rained on," he continued, warming to the topic as the singing dwindled behind them. "The legend never says: ' and Garahel led the armies of Thedas while getting pissed on by the sky.' Although he fought the Archdemon in Antiva, so it was probably roasting hot. Just our luck that Ferelden gets more rain than all the other countries put together."
"Ain't we lucky," intoned Flora solemnly, without a shred of sarcasm.
"Lucky," he replied. "Isn't the word I'd use. "
Alistair did not get the opportunity to demonstrate his choice of vocabulary: the bann, trailing a small cluster of armed men, appeared at the fork in the road. Teagan Guerrin had reached the age where a hard night left its echo on the face the following day: still handsome, but fraying at the edges.
"Sleep well?" he enquired, mouth twisting dryly. "You both look... refreshed . And- ah, forgive my manners - good morning, my lady…!"
The bann's voice, which had shifted to a richer tone when addressing Flora, rose once again in surprise. His eyebrows lodged themselves in the faded auburn of his hairline.
"My lady, are you wearing - a sack?"
Flora was indeed wearing a sack: one with holes cut in the necessary places, augmented with a leather belt and leggings beneath. Kerbrook Turnips was clumsily daubed in tar across her abdomen.
"I got a new outfit," she confirmed proudly, turning her coldwater eyes on him. "It ain't even my birthday. I don't think."
Teagan stared at her for a moment in naked astonishment - then shook his head, and returned his attention to the matter at hand.
"Ready to try the castle's front gate? It's a place to start, anyway."
There was a half-mile of distance between the town and the stone promontory that led to Redcliffe Castle. A road reared out of the clustered buildings; snaking higher on a ledge hewn into the cliff many generations prior. The original rough-cut track had been reinforced with stone and planking, the treacherous waterfall crossings replaced with sturdy bridges. A windmill marked the halfway point; the sails stood stationary in the fine and linear drizzle. The road meandered up the ruddy cliff-face, cast in permanent shadow by the vast and menacing presence of the castle overhead. The fortress seemed to sprout uninterrupted from its rocky foundation, as though it had sprung from the stone instead of built by human hand. Scrawny remnants of heraldry clung to the battlements, but the flagpole thrust from the main keep stood naked as a pointed finger.
The absence of the Guerrin colours seemed to trouble the bann as much as the castle's recurrent discharge of the dead. As they approached the intricate weave of iron that barricaded the stone spur, Teagan voiced his concern out loud.
"I've not seen that flagpole bare since the old arl - our father - died," he said, agitation cutting through each word. "And even then, the pennant shouldn't be taken down altogether. Maker's Breath - what's happened in there?"
"We should t-turn b-back," ventured one of his men. "My lord, it's too dangerous! There's… unholy things in there."
"Bite your tongue and find your backbone," retorted his unsympathetic master, fingers tapping a determined beat against the hilt of his sword. "Or, if you've lost it, ask the mender to grow you a new one."
Flora looked confused, but said nothing.
They halted on a ledge within shouting distance of the rocky spur: the castle's first and most effective natural defence. The drizzle had not abated, but the waning wind now permitted some conversation. Teagan Guerrin's palpable disquiet did not bolster his men with confidence. Alongside the two Wardens, the bann had brought six men-at-arms to accompany him; each one clad in the colours of Rainesfere. None looked enthusiastic to have been chosen: one man's chattering teeth echoed within his helm.
Alistair was grateful that he had donned his armour and retrieved his sword before joining the bann. The sight of the growing castle had ignited an odd mixture of emotion: his belly churned in an improvised alchemy. Beside him, Flora moved her damp hair from her face and followed his gaze; eyes wandering the crenellated landscape of the battlements.
"That's where you grew up?"
"Yes," he replied, then clarified, "in the stables."
Unlike some of the other Herring children, Flora had never built elaborate structures from the coarse grey grit that covered the beaches. She narrowed her eyes up at the sprawling mass, with its towers like the thrusting hats of Chantry Mothers.
"Lots of unnecessary rooms," she said at last, unimpressed. "I bet it's cold in there."
Her brother-warden was about to respond, when Teagan made a low sound of shock. Alistair put his hand to his sword-hilt in preparation; but the name that emerged from the bann's mouth caught him entirely by surprise.
"Isolde?!"
Flora followed the bann's incredulous stare. A small figure had emerged from the bowels of the castle and was hurrying across the spur, hunched against the restless air. They were wrapped in an array of bright fabric, which made them look like a jewelled beetle scuttling over the stone.
"Oh, shit," she heard Alistair say under his breath, and there was an oddness to his tone that made Flora look at him instead of the approaching figure. The warm olive of his skin had taken on a sallow cast; a vein throbbed above his right eye.
As the figure approached the far side of the iron gate, their features clarified. It was a woman with a taut and desperate bearing, whose beauty seemed to have been scraped out crudely from within. Her regal face had shrivelled; her velvet gown hung from a protuberant collarbone, and the rings rattled loose around her knuckles. Her eyes were still beautiful - the irises were the insipid blue of a duck's egg - but coarsened with grief and worry. The arlessa's gold band sat askew on her faded hair: an afterthought.
"Isolde," said Teagan again as she approached the bars. "What in the Maker's name- what the fuck is going on?"
The bann's voice rose, adrenaline surging hot and red in his blood. He strode to the gate and gripped the bars: gave it a furious rattle. The woman flinched as the bars clattered, but made no attempt to release the lock. Her body, thin as a blade of grass, was buffeted by the wind: a strong gust might have swept her over the edge. Lake Calenhad lay one hundred feet below, its surface chopped into white crests.
"Teagan," she breathed, and when she lifted her hanging head, the rims of her eyelids were crimson. "Where have you been? Mais non , it matters not. You must come with me."
Her voice was Orlesian and aristocratic. Teagan drew in a shocked breath, dismayed by the husk of the woman standing unsteadily on her feet before him. Isolde Guerrin was not yet forty, but appeared a decade older; worry had scored plough marks in the soft parts of her face.
"Where's my brother?" he demanded, setting aside her request for later. "And my nephew? What in hellfire is happening?!"
The woman's lips trembled and she blinked hard; drawing in a deep breath to keep herself calm. Decades of maintaining an aristocratic bearing assisted in this: although she wore no mask, her expression was equally opaque.
"I will explain everything to you," she said, strange and stilted. "Once we get within the castle. You must come with me."
While Flora puzzled over the woman's thick accent Teagan rubbed his brow with the back of his glove, his jaw taut. When he said nothing, Alistair thrust aside his trepidation and stepped forward.
"I don't think it's a good idea for you to go," he said, then clarified: "it's not a good idea. If you're going in, we should come with you."
The woman drew in a sharp breath; almost a flinch. Her chin lifted to take in the height that the stable lad had gained during the past decade. For the briefest instant, the worry was replaced with relief: now grown, he resembled Eamon in no way. Her gaze raked him like a fine comb: taking in the width of the shoulder and the face of a dead king crafted on young bones.
"Alistair," she said after a pause, blinking twice in rapid succession. "You're back."
"Lady Isolde," Alistair replied, grateful that the knot in his throat did not seem to be undermining his words. "We ought to come with the bann. Especially if it's dangerous in there."
The arlessa pursed her lips and the lines that framed them deepened, as if scored by a knife. Alistair felt something squirm within his belly; he suddenly felt no more than a boy of ten, in trouble for stealing bread from the kitchens.
Meanwhile, Flora had just received a pointed nudge from her spirits. Reluctantly - still worried about potential ghosts lurking within vaulted halls - she stepped out of Alistair's shadow; inserting herself into the noblewoman's line of sight. She had no idea who this Lady Isolde was, and it did not seem to be an appropriate time for introductions.
"I could go with Bann Teagan," she offered, hoping that her unwillingness was not too obvious.
I can shield. A bit.
Refrain from the caveat, retorted her general with a flicker of irritation. If you practised more, you would be as proficient with the shield as you are in your mending.
The arlessa's eyes focused on the female voice : a hawk sighting a shiver of grass below. With a distinctly Orlesian fastidiousness, she began her swift inspection at the feet: muddy boots, moth-eaten leggings - the nostrils flared at Kerbrook Turnips - and then her gaze arrested at Flora's face. Shock pulled at the arlessa's eyes and opened the mouth: the shiver of grass was not a fieldmouse, but a predator waiting to spring, teeth and claws bared.
"Teagan, who is this - this…"
For once, Isolde was not sure of her words. The working of the tormented woman's mind was a contradiction: some thoughts waded through mud and others raced beyond her grasp, twisting loose before she could form them.
Flora had no idea why the arlessa had become so dumbfounded - on impression alone, she was the least intimidating person in the party. Since she had naturally forgotten to retrieve her staff, there was no sign on her person that identified her as a mage.
"Isolde, there's no time," the bann retorted; the narrowing of his eyes acknowledging her surprise. "The town can't hold out for much longer against these constant attacks. What's happened in the castle? Who's in there? Is my brother - awake?"
The slight pause before the final word suggested that he had almost used another. The arlessa stared at Flora a moment longer, then gathered her thoughts and returned her attention to the bann.
"Teagan," she pleaded, dropping her voice to a whisper as thin fingers wrapped around the bars of the gate. The rings scraped against the metal; the silk sleeves smeared with the lichen that covered the ironwork. "I can't answer these questions - not here. Once we get inside, I will explain it- it will all become clear."
Isolde's head swivelled; a swift, nervy glance directed to the stone walls behind her.
"It's a bad idea." Alistair had thrown a cloth over the resentful child and interjected once again, jaw set and stubborn. "Flora and I at least should go with him."
A strange flicker passed across the arlessa's face, her lips parted and then sealed tightly shut. Instinct and habit prompted her to dismiss the boy who had once swept her stables with a blistering retort; but Alistair was a boy no longer, and he had grown into some disconcertingly familiar features. After all, it was not her husband's face that the young man wore, but another; one that had been sculpted in stone and painted on canvas; the strong, honest bones etched into the archives of Fereldan history.
Yet there was no time to ruminate over this startling knowledge. The arlessa, careless of her precious silk wrapping, dropped to her knees. Crouched in the mud like a peasant child, with fingers clinging to the bars and drizzle mixing with the tears that coursed down her cheeks: the woman who had always prided herself on her position now prostrated herself. A shiver of astonishment passed through Teagan's men at arms.
"Only you, Teagan! Please."
The bann swore under his breath. He hesitated a moment more, then dropped a hand to his belt to check that his sword still hung at his thigh.
"Teagan," said Alistair, alarmed. "You can't- "
But Isolde was already clambering to her feet, hope igniting like a lantern on her weary face. She fumbled in the folds of wet fabric, retrieved a key and set about unfastening the chain that kept the pair of gates together. Flora heard her brother-warden let out a groan through gritted teeth.
What should I do? she asked her spirits, wondering if she should intercede. The wind had returned with renewed energy: the arlessa fought to keep control of the gate as it swung open.
Watch. Wait.
I'm sure I can smell blood. I know that smell.
And is the woman injured?
Flora cast her mender's eye over the arlessa.
No.
So what does that mean?
It would take Flora - not the sharpest quill in the ink-well - several moments to decipher her spirit's meaning. In the meantime, the bann had edged himself between the parted gates, which were hastily shut in his wake. Isolde was already hurrying back across the narrow span of stone, bent crooked against the wind. Teagan did not look back but set out after her; fingers clenched white around the hilt of his sword. The wind chased itself howling around the castle watchtowers; the remnants of the Guerrin banners writhing against the walls.
Blood magic! thought Flora at last, remembering her earlier suspicions. Ooh, that ain't good.
Beside her, Alistair let out a long breath; one that he seemed to have been holding since first setting eyes on Isolde.
"Shit." He turned to his sister-warden, who was biting anxiously down on her thumbnail. "Now what?"
AN: Ok so they're finally at the castle! Moving things along! Here we have the introduction of Isolde TEEEEEEAGAN Guerrin! WHO IS THIS WOMAN, TEEEEGAN? Anyway, I love the fact that Alistair (in my canon anyway!) basically has his dad's whole face/body, so forget the whole trying to hide his parentage thing, lol. At least Isolde now can see that Eamon didn't bang some random maid! (Or so she thinks?!)
Anyway, speaking of banging et al, what are the chances that Alistair is going to remain in a zen/monk state each morning when waking up next to/literally entangled with! his sister-warden? Literally ZERO! Ha! Ha! Ha! At least she's got no issue with it XD
Ughhh this past week has been so busy! But finally managed to sort out a date for the removal firm/storage people to move us back to Wales :) the good thing about going home is that me/my parents know everyone, so the removal firm is owned by my friend's dad and they're doing it for mates rates! Hurray! Because otherwise it would have cost an actual grand D: no thank you! And now I have to start packing (ugh!) and also wrapping Baby's birthday presents (ready to be unwrapped, and then eventually packed up again lol)
Hope everyone is well and staying safe.
