The young Warden-recruits spent the next candle-length amongst an ever-changing flux of people. Alistair was not entirely sure which level of the Tower they were waiting on - each circular landing was uniform in design - but was relieved to put some distance between themselves and the battle-scarred upper floors. Aside from the devastation in the apprentice dormitories, the lower part of Kinloch Hold had escaped with only marginal damage. There were a few suspicious stains on the tiles, and a tapestry hung in a fold of woven fabric from the wall; otherwise, the corridor seemed intact.
Alistair and Flora stood elbow-to-elbow near the stairs, each comforted by the presence of the other. They were far from alone; a thoughtful Irving accompanied them for a time and then went to gather his possessions; the Knight-Commander summoned the Templars chosen to escort the Circle party. While Greagoir issued instructions, Wynne arrived clutching her staff and a deceptively small leather bag. A group of Tranquil filtered past the senior instructor with implacable serenity, wielding brooms, buckets and mops.
Morrigan disappeared for a short time, taking advantage of the disjointed activity to rummage through the nearby archives. She returned with a coy, flickering smile and the rustle of parchment beneath her cloak.
Throughout the constant ebb and flow, Alistair remained aware of his sister-warden. They stood silently alongside each other, elbows brushing on occasion; eyes set on the landing before them. Only a half-minute of privacy was granted to them between the departure of Irving and the arrival of Wynne; during this thirty seconds they turned to each other like the closing doors of a cabinet. He clenched the grubby hem of her shirt, as though his sword-hand's grip might prevent her from slipping back through the Veil. Her eyes dropped the full length of his body and back; searching for any wound that she could mend.
"Flora," he began after a speechless moment, and then came the unwelcome advent of footsteps. The acoustics of the curving stairwell gave fair warning of impending company: both recruits drew apart in unspoken accord.
The senior instructor appeared in the doorway with staff and bag, accompanied by one of the Tranquil. The former mage appeared to be a clerk: he wielded parchment and a dripping ink-pen. A small pair of round lenses rested on the bridge of his nose. Wynne murmured in low and unhurried tones; the clerk began his transcription.
"A teacher," breathed Flora as she watched the elderly mage dictate. "I can't believe a TEACHER is comin' with us."
"Now you know how I felt when a priestess joined our party."
Alistair's response was deliberately casual. His elbow sought the pressure of hers once again but now there was something that prevented it; some careless shift in footing, but it seemed as though the perennial spectre of Duncan had materialised between them once again. Flora was troubled by what had happened in the Fade, he could tell: there was a brooding cast to her mouth and her pale eyes were distant. Alistair was conflicted - he wanted to comfort her and yet he also wanted to demand I thought that was past, I thought -
Last night, didn't we - didn't we almost?
Surely that wouldn't have almost happened if you still felt… felt something for him?
Beside him, Flora inhaled deeply and lifted her chin: she had clearly just given herself a stern internal talking-to. At the far side of the landing, Wynne had opened her bag and was checking its contents a final time: it seemed to consist of nothing but books. On seeing this, Flora's nostrils flared.
"She's going to try and educate me," she warned ominously, picking up the loose thread of her earlier remark. "I don't want it."
"I thought you wanted to learn ' the letters', " Alistair said as though speaking from a dream, startled at how despondent he felt. "You know, how to read. To write."
"Mm," Flora replied. "But you said that you would teach me."
Alistair hesitated, and then looked at her. His sister-warden was a hook that snared the eye and sunk barbs into the flesh: he clung to his question in case it slipped away in the face of her beauty.
"Do you still want me," he said, then added hastily, "to?"
He saw her lips part, and then Morrigan cleared her throat. The witch had sidled soundless to their side, her leather bound feet making no disturbance on the tile.
"So, she-Warden" she interjected, eyes flashing gleefully. "Just to be clear - did you almost lose your much-coveted virginity to a demon or a demonic illusion? 'Tis important for me to be accurate when I relay this amusing tale to my mother later."
Alistair's jaw dropped; Flora's face became even stonier than usual. Morrigan then seemed to realise that this was perhaps too much - even from her - and relented slightly.
" Bah , 'twas a joke and nothing more. You know as well as I that Fade-dreams count for nothing in this world: otherwise Alistair here would not be so obviously a virgin."
Alistair let out a groan and wondered if he could persuade the Templars to host Morrigan for an extended stay. Despite the protection that accompanying Wardens awarded her; he was willing to bribe them with all his - well, Teagan's - worldly wealth.
"Don't be mean to Flora," he said lamely instead, wishing fervently that Irving had not just returned. He did not want to lose his temper in front of the First Enchanter; not when he and Flora alone were carrying the banner for the Wardens.
Alistair then realised that Flora had vanished; disappearing down the steps to the rear. He briefly considered going after her, but then remembered the confusing network of stairs they had ascended earlier that day: Kinloch Hold was a warren built skywards.
The First Enchanter did not approach them. Irving was conversing with Wynne with deliberate quietness; the woman nodded, then offered a wry smile and a reply. Her eyes darted to Alistair, and then the space where Flora had been. The two senior mages resumed their conversation as Wynne pulled on the sleeves of her travel cloak. It was surprisingly patched and weatherbeaten for the garb of a Circle mage.
Alistair was relieved that Irving was preoccupied: he was not in the mood for conversation. His body ached from the exertion of two consecutive battles; his shield-arm felt as though it were about to drop off. When he inhaled, each rib sang a protest. He angled himself away from Morrigan, hoping that the witch would get the message.
"What's this?" She had not. "Surely not a sulk? Is such moping suitable behaviour for a Warden of the Grey?"
Alistair ground his teeth.
"It's Grey Warden, actually," he said: hoping that his ominous tone would dissuade her from probing any further. "And I'm not sulking. I'm sore. And hungry."
"You are sulking," Morrigan pronounced, each word a dart. "One may wonder why, since you have achieved all that you set out to do here, and proven some competence in combat to our new allies. Ah! but of course. You are brooding over your "sister's" Fade fantasies."
Alistair wished that some Templar would come along and blast Morrigan in the face with a silence potent enough to last a week. He then remembered that silences were only intended to suppress spells, not speech. Swiftly, he ran through a series of suitably barbed retorts, and then - too weary to argue - yielded.
"Yes," he said, quietly. "How am I meant to compete with a dead man?"
For a moment Morrigan looked astonished - she had expected more verbal sparring.
"Just bed her and exorcise his ghost," she said, loud enough to draw a scowl from Knight-Commander Greagoir. "'Tis obvious she has a preference for hulking brutes. She would not turn you down."
Alistair gaped silently for a moment.
"I don't want to - to just bed her," he said, mouth dry at the thought. "I want to- to- "
The witch shot him a look of pity-laced horror. "Please, spare me the nauseating detail."
Alistair heaved a sigh that rose from the bottom of his boots. He wanted to strip off the remainder of the borrowed armour and sit; to close his eyes and exhale the tension from his body. The only part of the Templar monastery that he remembered with fondness were the stone baths. Despite the Chantry's disdain for the pagan Tevinter empire; they had no issue with borrowing their innovations in hygiene.
Before he could feel even more sorry for himself, the First Enchanter was before him: a slender grey streak of a man against the stone.
"Are you and your companions ready to depart?" Irving enquired, blue eyes alight with the anticipation of travel.
Alistair was astonished at how rapidly the aged mage had recovered from his ordeal at the hands of Pride. The man looked in better physical condition than he had done during their recruitment visit several months prior. The pallor that had once clung to his skin had lifted; the half-moon shadows beneath his eye had paled. Flora's mending had inadvertently rejuvenated the old man: he seemed ten years younger.
"Yes," said Alistair, then hesitated. "My sister-warden -Flora - she's gone somewhere."
"I'm sure she'll find us before we depart," interjected Wynne, with the briskness of a schoolteacher. "Let's not waste a moment more."
It was a far calmer descent than it had been an ascent. An eerie sense of calm had fallen on Kinloch Hold: the worst had happened, and they had survived. There had been casualties, but most had lived; several floors had been reduced to ruins, but the Circle had room to spare. News of Knight-Commander Greagoir's reluctance to request permission for an Annulment quickly spread.
Alistair followed in Wynne's footsteps, watching the bob of her polished white bun descend the stair before him. Irving had not told a falsehood: the woman moved with a youthful vigour, refusing Alistair's offer of assistance with her pack. On the contrary, Alistair himself felt several decades beyond his years: his body ached like an old man's. The borrowed armour was not intended for a man of his height and breadth of torso; it chafed at the skin and drove the links of Alistair's mail into the flesh.
"Do you know how long the child has been possessed for?" The curved wall of the staircase angled the First Enchanter's question back up towards Alistair. "Or the nature of the demon involved?"
Alistair could not remember if they had ever been made aware of either. The events of Redcliffe Castle seemed to have happened in the distant past.
"I don't know," he said, relieved that the passing window framed a prosaic view of Lake Calenhad, instead of some twisted dreamscape. "I know the maleficar responsible for it though - you'll recognise this name."
From the stiffening of Wynne's shoulders and the slight lift of her head, Alistair could tell that she had guessed what he was about to say.
"Jowan," the senior instructor said heavily, confirming Alistair's suspicion. "Our first failing."
From the weary note in her tone he guessed that she was not referring to Jowan's capability, but more the Circle's blindness to his experimentation. Morrigan opened her mouth to make a snide comment, then thought better of it; she did not want to draw too much attention to herself while she had half the contents of the library beneath her cloak.
"The arlessa hired him as a tutor for Connor," Alistair replied, compressing himself against the wall to allow a pair of serene-faced Tranquil to pass. "She wanted to hide the fact that he was a mage."
A sigh drifted up the spiral stair: Irving was shaking his head.
"Magic is not something you can easily suppress," Ferelden's First Enchanter commented acerbically, as though Isolde stood on the step below. "It does not take well to being concealed. It is as much a part of the body as the blood and the bone. Did the arlessa believe that the boy would grow up to govern as arl? To rule Redcliffe with his magic shut up as though in the castle dungeons?"
They had almost reached the ground floor: Alistair could hear the murmur of people and movement below. The air carried daylight mingled with the glow from the fire; the great wooden doors must have been opened.
"I think," he replied, as they emerged into the foyer, "she just didn't want her son to be taken away."
The columns framed a scene far less chaotic than the one they had walked in on earlier that day. There were no more wounded lying on the tiles: they had either been mended or removed to the infirmary. A half-dozen mages were waiting beside the fireplace, hemmed in by a hastily gathered array of baggage. Nearby stood a dozen Templar - two for each mage. In total, a party of twenty would be accompanying the Wardens to Redcliffe. Supplies had already been organised; crates piled precariously near the door. Kinloch Hold operated like an Orlesian clock that had fallen from a mantel but still worked: the battered mechanisms rotating dutifully into their designated place.
The stillness did not match the numbers gathered in the foyer: it was quiet enough to hear the fire gnawing through the last of its fuel. Like rural folk watching a newcomer, all eyes were set unblinking on the front door. Alistair then realised that they were not watching the door itself, but the girl beside it. The emotion was raw on their faces: curiosity, wariness, and something not easily labelled. Flora was standing alone near the torn remnants of a tapestry. Despite the fact that she had been their peer - or at least, a fellow Kinloch Hold resident - for four years, nobody had ventured across to speak to her.
In their defence, his sister-warden did not invite any casual approach. She seemed separate from the surroundings, the face cold and unyielding as Antivan marble. Her eyes were distant and she stood motionless; like some figure cut into a stone frieze.
Ten weeks prior, Alistair would have been equally alienated. At first he had not found Flora's imperial beauty agreeable in the slightest. It was intimidating and disconcerting in equal measure; it made his sentences lose their course partway-through and drift, aimless and nonsensical. He had often found himself talking to the air above her head to avoid looking directly at her, which was simple enough given their disparity in height.
Now Flora's face turned towards him, drawn by the heated touch of his attention. She looked him in the eye and Alistair did not blink, nor did he drop his gaze. She scoured him with her cold seawater stare and he met it with an assurance that he had never known he possessed.
My father would never have been afraid to look a man in the eye, he found himself thinking; simultaneously astonished by the reference.
Imperious or not, that queenly face doesn't intimidate me anymore.
Alistair strode towards her across the hexagonal tile and he saw the corner of her mouth quirk upwards. Flora was always economical with expression, and he had learnt that this was the equivalent of a smile.
"I got you some food from the kitchen," she said in her hoarse northern cadence; presenting a hessian bag. "To make up for no breakfast. Just some bread and pears. Also: apples."
He didn't respond at first, surveying Flora closely. A few flaking remnants of blood still clung to her cheekbone; he pressed a thumb to the skin to remove them. She held her breath as he touched her face; her lips parted and eyes fixed on his. Alistair wished fervently that they were alone, and realised - to his dismay - that their chances of being so diminished with every addition to their party.
Still, he resolved to make the best of it: they were both alive and intact, on the right side of the Veil; they had recruited the mages to their cause and to Connor's.
"Thank you, sweetheart," he said quietly, and then, more strident, "Right now this looks more appealing than a seven-course banquet."
Flora, who had no idea what a seven-course banquet was, nodded solemnly.
The sun continued its leisurely descent towards the Orlesian border. The Circle ship sat long and low in the water like some aquatic creature risen to the surface. The bow ended in a traditional curve and each mast was weighed with a dual-hung sail designed to make the most of Calenhad's changeable winds. It was anchored behind a spur of rock to the rear of Kinloch Hold; a jetty that - either through magic or a trick of perspective -was not visible from the tower's windows. No flag was fixed to the highest mast: when the First Enchanter left the Circle, he preferred to journey with some discretion. A late afternoon mist clung to the masts like an ethereal second sail.
Word had long ago reached the ship of their departure: the captain was a Tranquil, his crew well-paid villagers from the mainland. A skiff had already been sent across to retrieve the Wardens' horse and baggage from the Spoiled Princess.
Irving was surprisingly sprightly for a man of his years. The First Enchanter led the way across the dock towards the boarding ramp; Wynne matching him stride for stride. Servants streamed in both directions with full and then empty crates. Alistair and Flora, to the contrary, felt far wearier: he from the exertion of combat, she from the expenditure of magic. Both young Wardens trudged in the wake of their elders; feeling as though they ought to be the ones sporting the grey hairs and wrinkles. Morrigan, blistering at the glares of the Templars, had taken herself off to the upper mast. She surveyed them with her glossy avian eye, feathers ruffling with each shifting current of air.
Flora leaned her elbows on the ship's rail and surveyed the hull from bow to stern. She was grudgingly impressed by the size of the vessel - it was three times the length of the fishing boat they had sailed north in - but thought privately that such a ship was wasted on a lake.
Calenhad is the largest inland body of water in Thedas.
Ain't no sea though.
It is vast and fathoms deep.
Ain't got a tide though.
Exasperated: It is astounding that the Theirin youth has fondness for you, infuriating child.
Who?
Alistair.
Oh. I forgot he has two names.
Flora then realised that Alistair was talking to her, his eyes fixed on yet another arriving crate. From their position on the ship's upper deck, they had a good view of the gangplank. A pair of servants were manhandling yet another crate on board: from their laboured breathing and red cheeks, it looked a heavy one.
"Why do they need so much food?" He asked, his elbow pressed against hers on the rail. "It's only a day's sail to Redcliffe."
"Dunno."
Flora leaned forward, spotting a lid that sat crooked on its container. A corner of the crate's contents was visible: an array of packaged violet stones, each thrumming with subtle energy. She could taste the arcane prickling on her tongue even from a distance.
"I don't think it's all food. I think it's… it's things to help with the arl's son. To help with… whatever they're planning."
Flora had no idea how the First Enchanter was planning to exorcise the demon from the child. Whatever the ritual entailed, it seemed to require a large array of resources.
Alistair shot her a swift, sideways glance; their thoughts aligned on a similar path.
The First Enchanter of Ferelden is bringing a half-dozen mages and a host of specialised equipment to face the abomination.
"Well, probably wasn't the best idea to go into Redcliffe Castle with just four of us, then," he observed drily, recalling the ladder-drop, the tunnel, the dungeons and the demon. It seemed like a lifetime ago now: it had been only a handful of days.
His sister-warden gave a grunt of half-agreement, thinking four of us, and my spirits too.
On the lower deck, the First Enchanter's conversation with the captain had just drawn to a close. The crew were swarming over ropes, anchors, masts and sails; preparing the mid-sized vessel for launch. Flora watched the great swathes of canvas unfold, each sail struggling against its handlers in its eagerness to catch the wind. The windlass gave a croaking chant as it hoisted the anchor by several feet at a time.
This boat wouldn't last a second in the Waking Sea. It'd be blown away like a leaf in a pond.
She felt a great groan of wood beneath her feet, the sound welling up from the bowels of the ship as it shifted. Between the hull and the jetty inches became feet, feet stretched to yards, and then they were in open water. Unoccupied crew were lighting lanterns along the length of the ship: from the hue of the western sky, sunset was only a half-candle away.
Flora realised then that Irving was watching them from the lower deck, the old man's face catching the firelight like a pale thumbprint. This time, there was more than curiosity scored into the furrowed brow. The First Enchanter was looking to her and Alistair as though waiting for something; his stare steady and expectant.
Alistair shifted beside her, he had noticed the senior mage's attention too. At last - after a swift glance at Flora- the young man returned Irving's stare with a brief nod. The First Enchanter seemed satisfied with this, turning his attention to the receding view of Kinloch Hold.
What was that about, Flora thought idly, digging her nail into the wooden rail. Why was he looking to us?
Well, you are both commanders now.
NO! A splinter embedded itself into her finger.
You have recruited your first army.
Flora was horrified.
I don't want to be a commander. I just want to mend people.
There came no reply. Flora gave a deep sigh, suddenly feeling rather sorry for herself. She extracted the splinter from her finger with her teeth, spitting it out with more vehemence than was intended.
Alistair eyed his sister-warden; noticing the faint line that had scored itself across her forehead. He wondered whether to ask her about Duncan - and then thought better of it, resolving to let her bring up the matter if she so wished.
Flora stuck her finger between her lips, letting the restorative balm of her saliva mend the punctured flesh. He could tell that she was still aggrieved: it showed itself on her sculpted face as mild pensiveness.
"If you're hungry," Alistair said easily, drawing her attention from the voices in her head by offering the hessian sack. "We could have our late breakfast now."
AN: Happy DA day! Thank fuck this hideous year is almost over. On the plus side my baby is the most gorgeous creature in the entire world and she grew up so much this year so I'll always appreciate 2020 for that at least.
Anyway, I really liked this chapter! I wanted to tie up the Circle stuff a little more extensively than I did last time. I also wanted another ship chapter so now they're sailing to Redcliffe. It just makes sense to me!
Also I like that even Morrigan realised that she's overstepped the bounds with her comment to Flora; and backtracks. And then she tries to give Alistair some actual advice!
Poor Flora: looks like her vision of just being a mender in the rearguard is also just a dream, lol.
Have a good weekend!
