The western horizon was a sallow eddy of cloud: a blanched sun slunk off to hide beyond the Frostbacks. In its wake it left a world of monochrome, the sky and shore cast in hues of grey. Lines of fir trees bristled on the shore; beyond rose the undulating terrain of the Bannorn. The air was as cold and crisp as the first bite of an apple. Irving's ship sailed south, Kinloch Hold diminishing with each league covered. The Circle Tower shrunk to a silhouetted finger on the coast, standing stark and stern against a backdrop of twilight. It looked benign enough from a distance, bearing no sign of the horrors it had witnessed in recent days.
Yet there was no need to drop anchor at the waning of the light: tonight the Lake was placid and the winds submissive. The sailors had already strung up lanterns between the masts and along the railings: the ship plowed onwards like a terrestrial constellation. The waves met the wood in gentle rhythm; the internal parts of the hull conversed in muted groans and creaks. Navigating Calenhad's sedate waters was a quieter undertaking than sailing the open ocean.
Most mages had already retreated to their quarters below-deck, trailing their Templar escorts. Wynne, the senior instructor who had pledged to journey with the Wardens beyond Redcliffe, was standing alone at the ship's elevated stern. She was looking back at the shadowed outline of Kinloch Hold: her expression hidden by a mass of shadow. One of the Circle servants, distinct in their sage-green livery, approached to offer her a shawl. The elder mage shook her head in an absentminded denial, her eyes fixed on the shrinking tower. The Nearby Tranquil captain stood at the wheel, his face as placid as the water beneath the bow. He did not acknowledge Wynne, nor she him.
Alistair and Flora, in unspoken agreement, had found a place to sit away from the pensive mage and patrolling Templars. He claimed a crate as a seat; she was content to lean against the rail, watching the reflection of the lanterns in the water. Even with him seated and her standing, the disparity in their heights and the length of his torso brought his head to the level of her shoulder.
"Do you want to finish it?"
Alistair offered up the last part of the loaf. it had been Flora's half originally, but she had taken only a few bites, suddenly lacking an appetite. Unlike the senior instructor, Flora had turned her back on Kinloch Hold as it receded from view.
"Eh, no," she said vaguely after a moment, darting an eye at the remnants of the bread. "You have it."
"I'll save it," he replied, folding it back in the cheesecloth. "In case you get hungry later."
Flora curved the corner of her mouth at him, her eyes distant. She did not want to think about the events of the Circle - or about what had happened in the Fade - but the memories stung like fresh wounds: raw and pink. She had not enjoyed her four years at Kinloch Hold; she had gained neither an education nor friends; yet seeing it eviscerated had shocked her to her core. It was the second time that she had witnessed a bastion of power and authority crumble away. The words that had branded themselves into her mind after Ostagar's massacre burned hot once again.
Men can fail. Plans can fail. Courage can fail.
Mages can fail. Circles can fall.
Flora took an anchoring breath, feeling her lungs press against the confines of her ribs. She focused instead on her brother-warden as he drained the last dregs of ale. Even seated, the proportions of Alistair's body were vast and bulky enough to dominate the space around him. He stood out against the sallow evening air: the tawny skin and burnished hair held a heat that a winter sunset could never emulate. Two day's worth of growth darkened his jaw.
"You don't look sick," she observed, recalling his pallor on their fishing-boat journey north.
Alistair thought for a moment and then realised that Flora was right: his body ached from the rigours of impact, but his belly was settled.
"Well, I suppose I've found my sea legs."
Flora nodded, turning to press the small of her back to the railing. The slap of water against the hull was comforting; even if her nostrils still craved the pungent tang of salt. The shore meandered along in darkness, broken by the occasional cluster of dotted light. She wondered what each settlement was called, or if they were too small to warrant a title. Herring had been named by its inhabitants; deemed insignificant by Ferelden's cartographers.
The sun had vanished without ceremony; ducking from sight behind the Frostbacks. Flora set her eyes on the water, watching the lantern-light ripple.
"Alistair," she said, very quietly.
This is it, he thought; his stomach no longer steady.
"Yes."
"What do you think - did you think - " Flora did not know what tense to use, and ploughed on regardless. "About Duncan and… and me?"
What even were we, anyway? Something fleeting and impermanent.
Something that could never last. Frost at dawn, a cobweb on a window-pane.
A body in the water.
Alistair was silent for several long moments, his eyes focused on something not tangible. Flora felt her heart pulling downwards like a lead anchor.
"No one thinks that it was a good thing," she said, suddenly despondent. "My general-spirit told me off for it. Morrigan made fun. The other Wardens called me a- a bedwarmer. No one approved."
Alistair had spent more hours than he would care to admit brooding over the same question. He had ruminated over every possible answer; turning them over and taking them apart, dissecting each moment he witnessed between his sister-warden and their commander. Eventually he decided that his mind was playing tricks on him: a passing glance became a lingering stare, a casual hand a caress.
Now, in the half-light, with Flora's pale eyes set unblinking on him, Alistair realised that the answer was in fact a simple one. He met her anxious stare, and spoke.
"Duncan had a hard life ," he said, honestly. "He didn't want to be a Warden, and he certainly never wanted to lead them. So much time spent amongst foulness, death and decay over the years, his mind grew corrupted and… and his body was rotting from the inside out. And then you came, and you brought some - some light to his life. To the last and darkest part of it. He seemed more at peace with the world in those last few weeks."
Flora released a long breath that she had not even realised she was holding. Her eyes felt hot and then the warmth spilled down her cheeks. Hastily she turned again, groping for the railing and grateful for the cover of night. Then she felt movement in the dark beside her; iron-bound muscle rose like a mountain shaped by the Maker's hand. An arm bent itself around Flora's shoulders, careful not to settle its full weight on her.
"Duncan meant a great deal to me." Alistair's voice drifted above her head; low and earnest. "And you made him happy, for a time. I'm- I'm grateful for it. That he got to experience something like that before the end. Something beautiful."
Alistair heard her sniffle and offered up the edge of his sleeve; not wanting to impose on this rare display of grief from his determinedly stoic-faced companion. Flora wiped her running nose, half-wondering why tears tasted like the sea. She felt Alistair's fingers tighten on her arm; his breath slid warm and frustrated on her neck. He wanted to embrace her but was unsure if it was appropriate: a ghost of Duncan's name still hung in the air between them.
Flora made the decision by turning her face into his armpit. Alistair's other arm found her waist and he drew her against him, astonished at how the starkly different dimensions of Flora's body fit so precisely into his own. The chill of her glacial stare and the marble of her skin was illusory. In his arms, she was warm and pliant to the touch; not a statue carved by ancient hand, just a girl mourning her first infatuation.
Dusk was deepening into night: dark veins crept through the sky and leeched the last remnants of daylight. A ghost of a moon had appeared overhead, cloaked demurely in a veil of cloud.
Ducking to close the distance Alistair rested his chin on the top of Flora's head, the curve of her skull beneath his jaw. He inhaled the scent of her: plain soap and sweat and the faint salt-tang residue of her mending. His heart felt as though it had swollen to twice its usual size; hurling itself against the constraints of his ribs. In that moment, he wanted her so badly that it made him dizzy.
Since childhood, Flora had been aware that she possessed an extraordinary face. As she grew into adolescence, the covetous stares of others followed her like her own shadow. Eventually, their desire faded into the background like the chatter of birds: ever-present and easily ignored. She had a shield that would protect her from unwanted advances; their words went unheeded.
At Ostagar, Duncan had admired her with a poetic eloquence that Flora had not always been able to understand. Cailan's lust was as unsubtle as a dwarven warhammer. Yet Alistair had deliberately averted his eyes from her; built up a barrier of armour and slept with his back to her face. At the time, she had been intrigued by his distaste. Now, she wanted the truth.
"Do you think I'm beautiful?" she asked, curious.
The question was directed to Alistair's armpit; the words muffled by the weave of his shirt.
If his chin had not been resting on Flora's head, Alistair's jaw would have dropped.
"By Andraste, Flora," he said, incredulous. "The Maker broke the mould after he made you. You're incomparable."
His hands rose to cradle the sides of Flora's face, calloused fingers seeking the rich body of her hair. He could feel the high plane of her cheek beneath his thumb; the skin was still damp. Her eyelashes were stuck together like the fronds of a plant, but she was no longer tearful. Alistair thought that his hand looked vast and meaty against the flawless architecture of his sister-warden's features: the skin laid over artful bone. He wanted to let her hair down from its knotted band and spill it like wine beneath him.
"You're everywhere I look," he continued low and urgent, wanting the words out in the air, "even when I'm not looking at you."
The full pink curve of her mouth was an invitation. Then:
"Grey Wardens, yeh cabins are ready!"
A member of the crew had materialised from nowhere. It was the Tranquil captain's second; a man with a prodigious beard and a glass eye that canted left.
Alistair fought the urge to hurl the interruption overboard.
"Cabins?" he repeated, heart sinking as the space between himself and his sister-warden expanded once again.
Flora looked as though she had been rudely awoken from a dream, her mouth half-open and her eyes glassy.
The sailor gave a grunt of assent.
"Aye. It's a great honour for us to be ferryin' members of such an esteemed an' venerable military order."
He then surveyed them both dubiously: neither matched his imagined model of a Grey Warden. They looked more adolescents caught in the act than a pair of hardy warriors.
"I thought you'd be a bit more... grizzled," the man added with Bannorner bluntness. "Eh, but what am I to know? Anyway, your cabin is on the larboard side- " his eyes were on Alistair, "third down. A bath's been prepared. Must need it after all that fightin' ."
The sailor paused, hoping that Alistair would disclose some more details about what had happened in the Circle.
Alistair was in no mood for reminiscing: he had no idea what larboard meant, his battered chest ached as though clamped in a vice, and he had been rudely interrupted at a crucial moment.
"And as for you, lassie - I mean, my lady-Warden," the sailor continued, when it became obvious that no particulars would be forthcoming. "Your quarters are in the stern. You'll be well-guarded: the captain's set his most trusted to watch your door, and the Instructor Wynne will take the second berth."
Flora was dismayed at the prospect of parting from her companion, and appalled by the news that she would be sharing a cabin with the teacher. She also did not understand why she alone was to be placed under guard- there were a half-dozen mages more dangerous than she on board.
"Rest assured, noone will place a finger on yeh," added the sailor, solemn behind the copious beard. "Yeh can bathe in peace."
Flora wondered if it was worth explaining that she had no qualms about being on a ship filled with men, and that she had been outnumbered a hundred to one by them at Ostagar. A far more daunting prospect was sharing a cabin with the only other woman on board: the severe and hawk-eyed senior instructor.
The captain's second looked ready to interrogate Alistair further and so they parted reluctantly; unspoken words and unfinished business hanging in the chill night air between them.
"Perhaps you'll come out in the morning and be educated, my dear ," Alistair said lightly, aware of the sailor's curious stare.
Flora looked even more mutinous: she did not want an education.
The last she saw of her brother-warden before he vanished - not towards the larboard side - was the crown of his head atop the broad-beam of his shoulders; gilded by lantern-light. She was proud to see that, despite the gentle sway of the boards beneath his feet, Alistair walked without faltering.
The ship's decking was also cast in metallic hue: silvered by a moon that had discarded her veils of cloud and emerged in full, milky brilliance. Flora followed the captain's second towards the stern, grateful that he felt no need to continue a conversation with her. He was a Bannorn man and she was a northerner: each had the measure of the other.
Two patrolling Templars passed them en route. Despite the fact that Flora was part of the Grey Warden and the Chantry militia - in theory - had no right to lay hand on her, it was easy to believe otherwise when confronted with their faceless helms and flecked swords. Flora flinched and averted her eyes skyward, grateful that they spared her only a brief and wary glance. She then wondered where Morrigan was, and hoped that she was not getting into trouble.
"My lady-Warden."
They had arrived at a door set into the stern, flanked by lanterns and panels of opaque glass. Two sailors, already bored of guard duty, were dealing cards on an upended barrel. They looked at Flora, gave her the customary swift appraisal, and then returned to their game.
"If one of 'em even peeks in yer window," the bearded second said, bluntly. "You've permission to roast 'em alive, my lady. With your magic. "
Flora gave a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgement, lacking the will to explain her limitations. She hoped fervently that she would enter to find Instructor Wynne snoring on her bunk. After all, she was old, and didn't old people sleep most of the time, anyway?
Ha! You know better than that.
Flora sighed: she did. Herring had more grey-hairs than the usual village due to her ability to mend wounds and cure illness. Their elders worked until incapable of standing; then, they made hooks or mended nets until they were incapable of seeing. Only then would they be permitted to rest.
In an attempt to delay the moment of entry, she turned to her escort and fixed him with her effortless stare. He floundered momentarily like a live butterfly pinned to a board, then regained his composure.
"My lady?"
Flora ignored an address that she perceived as sarcastic.
"What's the biggest fish you've ever caught on here?" she asked, hoping that this would spark a lengthy conversation.
The sailor's lip curled; though he managed to bite back the full sneer.
"This isn't a fishing boat," he replied, contemptuous. "This is a passenger vessel. Its purpose to ferry the First Enchanter and his guests to whither he wishes."
Flora's nostrils flared at such disdain.
"The Waking Sea would smash this ' passenger vessel' into matchsticks . The Hag's Teeth would chew it to pieces ."
"Only madmen sail the Waking Sea," retorted the bearded mate. "Madmen and northerners. Same thing."
A Herring native would have swung for the sailor: or knocked one of the sitting card players from his chair and used it as an improvised club. Flora took a deep and anchoring breath, gathering up her dignity like a trailing fishing net.
"Good night," she said, rigidly polite. "Thank you for showin' me to the cabin."
I hope an albatross steals your sea legs while you sleep, she added under her breath, turning away. I hope you fall out of your hammock and get a bruise in an inconvenient place.
The frame was warped and the door required some effort to shift. It yielded after a moment to reveal a cabin of medium size, wood-panelled and rustic in decor. Three windows were set at an angle on the far wall, following the sloping line of the ship's stern. A table and four chairs were placed in the cabin's centre, flanked by two berths draped in red tartan.
It was not a cabin in frequent use: the furnishings smelt as though they had been kept at the bottom of a damp drawer for months, and cobwebs made complex patterns across the leaded glass. It was lit by a blend of moonlight and lamp-light: silver and gold dappled the floorboards. It had been some time since the ship last set sail.
To Flora's dismay, the instructor was not asleep. Wynne was sitting on one berth, straight backed and alert, her eyes trained on the door. It seemed as though she had been waiting for Flora to arrive. Still, the elder mage said nothing as Flora - with a heavy heart - shut the door behind her, the light shifting.
Wynne, sensing that perhaps her young counterpart was on the verge of bolting, let her hand rest on a stack of slim leather tomes.
"I've been educating myself on the four previous Blights," she said, her words slicing the silence. "I admit, it's a part of history that I've never been particularly interested in. Of course, now that the past has become the present once again, I must compensate for my ignorance."
Flora did not like books, and she did not like history. She gave a grunt, noticing that what little baggage she owned had been placed on the opposite berth. She took off her boots - they were stained from something vile and organic she had stepped in at the Circle - and wandered towards the window.
"I've also been reading the old Warden archives, or those that are permitted to the uninitiated," the senior instructor continued, determined to gain a more substantial response. "The Darkspawn are not an enemy I'm familiar with, though I wager they burn when set aflame as anything else would."
Flora had never set anything aflame without the use of flint and tinder. She watched her gilded breath cloud the window, obscuring the world beyond the cabin.
"Hm," she offered vaguely, fingertip tracing a circle over the misted glass.
Something then occurred to her; she glanced over her shoulder.
"Do they say how to kill an Archdemon?"
"The Archdemon Andoral was killed after rabid griffons ravaged its flesh," Wynne replied, her hand moving across the cover of the tome. "Warden Garahel leapt from the highest spire in Ayesleigh and drove his sword into the beast's neck."
Flora could not remember seeing any rabid griffons at Ostagar. She wondered how Cailan and Duncan had planned to kill the Archdemon without them.
"Well, we ain't got any," she said at last, solemnly. "We have a priestess. A Witch of the Wilds. And a Qunari."
And my spirits, she added internally, though I'm not telling you about them.
Wynne drew in a deep breath; placing the book to one side with measured deliberateness. If Flora had looked at the senior instructor in that moment, she might have glimpsed the apprehension scored into the older woman's face. Flora, however, was now busy adding a scowl and angry eyebrows to her circle on the glass.
"According to precedent," the mage continued, composing herself. "The elves and dwarves too are sworn by ancient duty to provide aid when called upon. That is not an inconsiderable number of troops at your disposal. If they all agree to come."
The girl at the window turned to look at her, the iron-grey stare cool and appraising. Wynne felt the small hairs on the back of her neck rise: her heart leapt forward, startled. There was a face behind Flora's face: one that was not tangible, but more a memory of something ancestral: a bloodline that had conquered lands and commanded legions.
"THEY WILL COME," Flora declared flatly, then turned back to her sketch and drew a moustache.
"Anyway," she added a moment later, speaking more to herself than to Wynne. "In that case. I'd just go and recruit from Herring. Then the Archdemon would wish it had stayed underground."
AN: The Grey Wardens were once a respected and feared paramilitary order in Thedas, but the Warden and Alistair are basically just a couple of millennials running around the woods trying not to get eaten by Darkspawn. Haha! I read that description on Tumblr and honestly that is EXACTLY the vibe I'm going for here XD
Anyway, I loved writing this chapter! Flora gets a little bit of closure with Alistair re Duncan, and vice versa, he starts confessing his feelings... and then, well, I do love a good interruption :P
Also, as a history lecturer, I LOVE it when Flora is like I HATE BOOKS I HATE HISTORY XD She's so much fun to write haha
