Flora awoke the next morning to the beat of Alistair's pulse against her ear. As a mender, she had a great deal of appreciation for the heart and its ceaseless endeavours in keeping the body alive. She did not open her eyes immediately, but listened to the even lub dub of the blood. As would be expected, her brother-warden was in prime physical condition: his heartbeat was slow and measured, echoing within its cage of bone and muscle.
Lub dub — lub dub — lub dub
She remembered the rose that Alistair had offered her the previous night: the stem trembling between his fingers.
The petals were dark and lustrous red, like the skin of a ripe plum. It reminded him of my hair.
Lub dub — lub dub — lub dub
Then he told me that he would give me more time to mourn Duncan.
Lub dub.
Flora wondered if spending the night in the same bed had been the most sensible decision, given this declaration. Although they had not made love, she had fallen asleep in his arms in a manner similar to post-coital lethargy. There had been some tentative exploration beneath the blanket; the deliberate alignment of anatomy to see how it might fit together if they were not part-clothed. She had pushed the firm curve of her rump into his tented trousers; he had caressed the soft flesh of Flora's thigh as the nightgown slid down her shoulder.
Those touches had taken place in the heady hours between midnight and dawn: sunrise had brought some measure of sobriety.
Maybe I should have gone back to my quarters, Flora thought, chewing pensively on her lower lip. If we were trying to slow things down between us.
It was easy to think such things, but not to act on them. Despite the narrow rigidity of the bunk and a blanket so motheaten that light shone through it, Flora could not fathom leaving the warm envelope of her companion's arms. She lay like a crab snug within its shell; her cheek to his chest and her head tucked beneath his chin. It was a marvel that two bodies of such physical disparity could fit together in seamless harmony.
What hour is it?
Flora could hear movement from all directions: the ship was rousing itself. Footsteps trod the deck overhead and a muffled exchange of voices echoed within the passage. There came a groan of wood beside her head; someone in the neighbouring cabin had just heaved themselves from their bunk. The men who had navigated Calenhad's nocturnal waters were relieved by their daylight counterparts.
Time for lazy whelps to get up, retorted her general, nastily. The Archdemon will not wait for you.
The discordant peal of a Chantry bell echoed in Flora's ear, so distinct that she raised her head to look for the source of the sound. She realised then that it existed only within her own mind: reverberating within the bony confines of her skull.
What was that? A bell ringing?
Her movement prompted a yawn and a sigh from Alistair. She felt his pulse quicken as he passed through the Veil and into the world of the waking. His breath warmed the back of her neck as his arm tightened around her belly; wanting confirmation that she was still beside him even before his eyes had fully opened.
"Morning," he said into her hair, sleep sticking to the word. "Morning, Flora."
Alongside the drowsiness, a raw note of pleasure rang through her name. The young warrior was unabashedly delighted to wake with her in his arms.
As Alistair spoke, he stroked the flat plane of her belly; palm coursing over the thin linen. It was a tender, absentminded caress; an accompaniment to his out-loud wonderings. There was no hard muscle defining her abdomen: her soft slenderness yielded readily to pressure.
"Do you think we're near Redcliffe?" she asked sleepily, fingers wandering over his wrist. "I think it's past dawn."
There were no windows in the cabin; no tell-tale slant of sun angled itself through clouded glass. Alistair hoped that they were still some hours away, then immediately felt guilty: Redcliffe was in desperate need of aid. They had been away for three nights - ample time for the abomination's cursed creations to wreak havoc on the town.
"We must be almost there," he replied. "The captain said that it would take only one night if we had a favourable wind behind us."
"Nualláini."
"What? Anyway, I heard one of the sailors say that the winds were good, so we probably aren't far off."
By chance, the side of Alistair's palm brushed against her linen-covered breast. The air stopped in his throat and he retracted his fingers as though burnt. Then - astounded by his own boldness - he extended a hand once again. His thumb found the ripe swell of flesh and began to follow its contour: stroking the valley where her breast met her ribs.
"I should go and get my clothes," Flora replied, not enthused at the prospect of returning to the quarters she shared with the teacher. The candle-length they had spent in each other's company the previous evening had been long enough; she wished for no further gentle interrogation on the matter of her spirits.
"Stay here a little longer," Alistair said quietly, words muffled by the top of her head. "You can borrow some of mine."
He did not want her walking back through the ship in raw daylight; clad in her nightgown and trailing curious stares. He also had a vague feeling that he might throw the first sailor who made a lewd comment overboard.
"Your clothes drown me," Flora pointed out, aware that if she remained in his arms; hands would soon venture to places previously glimpsed, but not explored.
These mages need to get to Redcliffe to help Connor. They purge him.
Then we find Alistair's arl. If he's sick, I mend him. He offers us his help and the men of the south.
Then we… do something else. Several somethings.
Then we end the Blight. Save Herring. I go home.
"I'm sure we could make do."
The hard muscle of Alistair's chest pressed into her back with each breath he took. She turned her head to glimpse the underside of his chin, coarsened by two days' worth of stubble.
"You'll come to Herring with me, won't you?" she asked, not entirely sure what she meant by the question. "After this is all over?"
"Well, I confess that I'm intrigued by the place," her brother-warden replied easily, though the fingers of his spare hand found hers and tightened. "From what you've told me, it sounds like a… unique destination."
"Mm," Flora said, squirming in rare excitement. "We can go to Herring together . I know the way, it ain't on the map. Once you've had your welcome beating, I'll show you the Hag's Teeth."
"Do you mean welcome greeting, my dear?"
She shot him an odd look. "No. Then we can try and find the giants. See if any might be your grandfather."
Alistair laughed out loud; though there was a tension behind his ribs that made breathing a near-painful experience. The ache in his heart was not anything that Flora could set her mouth to and mend; yet at the same time, she was the only one who could alleviate the pressure. He had not dared to think beyond the Blight - to even harbour such hope seemed reckless - but now he found himself wondering if Herring could use a blacksmith.
Despite her unenthusiastic declaration that she ought to return to her own quarters, Flora made no attempt to extract herself. She paid no heed to the footsteps in the passage, nor the muffled exchange of conversation on the deck overhead.
"I had a dream last night," Alistair said, sharing her desire to prolong their encounter. "Guess what it was about."
Flora grimaced. She was not good at guessing at anything , let alone the creative Fade-weaving of a mind. After a moment, she offered lamely: "Darkspawn?"
She felt his chin brush her head in a swift back-forth of denial.
"No. I dreamt I was at the Landsmeet - you know what the Landsmeet is? No? It's where all the lords of Ferelden come together for some important reason; to cast a vote, to put someone on trial - Loghain, preferably - or discuss a threat. Anyway, I dreamt that I was at the Landsmeet, standing in the ancient debate hall; and I look around, and everyone - all the lords and ladies - is made out of cheese! Round wheels of cheese sat on top of their necks!"
Alistair's voice rose on an incredulous note, his fingers clenching around hers for emphasis.
"Oh," breathed Flora, bemused and intrigued in equal measure. "Did you… eat them?"
"Didn't get the chance," he replied, cheerfully. "I woke up. What do you think it means?"
Flora was silent for several moments, biting at her little fingernail.
"That you secretly want to be a mouse," she offered eventually.
He grinned into the top of her head, then brushed his lips lightly against her hair. She tilted her yearning face towards his, and then hesitated; knowing that to complete the movement might tip them beyond the point of no return.
In that instant, they both realised the importance of rising from the bunk. Under the spell of lantern-light and shadow, it had been easier for them to pretend that they were nothing more than a youthful pair fumbling towards intimacy; utterly careless of the world beyond the two of them. Yet with dawn came the reminder that this was not so. They were the only two Wardens left alive in Ferelden: duty had to be donned like a jacket lined with lead.
Alistair loosed his grip on his sister-warden with a pull of sadness in his belly. He sat on the edge of the bunk and took a deep breath, summoning the usual string of unappealing images: a snarling Hurlock, a lecturing Chantry Mother, the manure heap in the corner of a stable.
Flora cast him a look of mingled sympathy and amusement: it seemed inconvenient for one's arousal to be so obvious and incapacitating. She did not allow her gaze to linger, extracting herself from the blanket and clambering upright. One of her feet prickled as the blood returned; it had been pinned beneath Alistair's calf.
"I'm going to go and get dressed," she said, eyeing the dresser wedged before the door with a mild ruefulness. In the end, they had not made the most of the rare moment of privacy. "And then find Morrigan."
The reminder that the witch existed was a cold bucket of water over Alistair's loins: he grimaced, but was at last able to stand without discomfort.
"She's probably perched halfway up the mast," he replied, crossing the narrow cabin in a few strides. "Or perhaps a seagull has eaten her. Here's hoping."
"I hope she ain't been taunting the Templars."
Flora bit at her fingernail as her brother-warden hefted the lumpen dresser aside. The barrier between themselves and the world had now been removed; both felt strangely forlorn. Impulsively, she reached out to intercept his hand. As their fingers wove together, Alistair raised their clasped hands to his lips and pressed a gentle, quasi-fraternal, kiss to her knuckles.
"Do you want me to escort you back to your cabin?" he offered, then immediately regretted his choice of word. After all, he was no Templar guarding a mage.
Flora seemed more confused by the offer than bothered by the phrasing.
"Why?"
Alistair was not entirely sure how to voice his concern. She looked at him, barefoot in the borrowed nightgown; hair a plummy-red tangle down her back.
"They might look at you," - he began, hesitant. "Returning from my cabin to yours in daylight, wearing your - your night things. And they might think that we… we…"
Did what we would have done if I hadn't resurrected Duncan's ghost, he thought, glumly. Spoken his name and put his face in the forefront of her mind.
Flora gave a dispassionate heave of the shoulder; her face set in its usual stoicism. "Eh."
Then she smiled at him: the cold eye of a winter sun emerging from the cloud.
"I don't mind if they think that."
He grinned back at her, wistful.
Flora left Alistair's quarters, stifling a yawn. The passage held no sign of life save for footsteps fading at the far end. Lanterns lit the previous night had burned down to puddles of wax within their tarnished housing. A rectangle of light to the left indicated the direction of the lower deck: she turned her face towards it. Although the air lacked the undercurrent of ocean salt it was fresh enough, and accompanied by the sound of water against wood. Flora inhaled as she followed the passage to its end, emerging near the foot of the central mast.
It was an hour or so past dawn: the sun still lay in the rolling terrain of the Bannorn. Rays of diluted winter light shone through the valley like the ancient glacier that had sculpted it. It leeched the colour from the world like a painting hung before a window.
Flora saw immediately that Alistair had spoken true: Nualláini had been generous and blown them swiftly towards the south. The ruddy-hued cliffs swelled against the horizon in the manner of blood smeared sideways with a finger: interrupted by the formidable grey spur that formed the foundation of Castle Redcliffe. The town itself was a faint scribble at the base of the rocky promontory. If the wind kept the mainsail full, they would reach Redcliffe's dock well before midday.
Ignorant of any curious eyes - the stares of men slid from Flora like water - she wandered to the railing. Placing her palms on the wood, she inhaled the damp, earthy scent of the lake. Her eyes wandered along the red line of the cliff; the buildings clustered at its foot and the castle overhead.
We'll be there soon, won't we?
Her spirits did not deign to offer a response to such an obvious question. Flora felt a squirm of worry: she hoped vehemently that they would not arrive to scenes of further carnage.
We left them Leliana to help with the night attacks. And Sten. I would set those two against a whole army of Darkspawn.
She wished that she felt more certain, heaving a deep sigh from the root of her belly.
"I am not surprised," rang out a gleeful voice from nearby. "To hear such noises of regret after a night spent underneath the lumbering oaf."
The startled Flora almost fell over the rail. Managing to keep her balance, she clutched at the wood: head swivelling from left to right. Morrigan was leaning against the rail a yard further down; bare arms across her chest and a smirk writ across her face. The small bones woven into her hair whispered each time she moved her head.
"Oh," Flora said, pleased that she did not have to scour the ship from bilge to deck for the mage. "Morning. I'm glad you ain't in a Templar cage."
The witch snorted, her eyes darting towards Flora.
"'Twas near-impossible, but I resisted the urge to torment the Chantry mice."
The corner of Flora's mouth twisted upwards. The voluminous sleeves of the nightgown slithered over her wrists and she pushed them back up past her elbows impatiently: Wynne was a woman of longer dimensions. Morrigan surveyed her from the tail of her eye, mildly annoyed at her own undeniable curiosity.
"So, will you now take the mantle of Chantry sister?"
"Eh?"
"I assumed that the events of last night have rendered you disgusted by men forever, and sworn to a life of celibacy."
It took Flora - not the sharpest fishhook in the case - several moments to decipher the witch's meaning.
"Oh," she said eventually; Morrigan let out a delicate snort "Oh. No, we didn't do anything. Well- " a brief pause. "Or barely anything."
The witch's face contorted with genuine shock, and the ensuing squawk of incredulity was enough to startle a passing sailor into a stumble. Morrigan's eyes were as round and gleaming as gilded saucers: they bore into Flora with avian intensity. When she spoke, the tone of her voice was almost indignant.
"Was he incapable?"
The image of Alistair perched on the berth - determinedly focused on a succession of mundane images in an attempt to calm himself - rose in Flora a mind.
"He wasn't incapable," she said, wistfully. "It just… it weren't the right time."
Morrigan released a sigh of deliberate pointedness.
"Then we will be enduring your gazes of mutual longing for the immediate future, then?"
"Mm."
"Marvellous."
Despite the witch's long-suffering tone, it was very nearly a conversation that might occur between friends. Flora could have sworn that she glimpsed a flicker at the corner of Morrigan's mouth: as a northerner, she was a master of the imperceptible smile.
The mender and the shape-changer stood a stride apart at the rail, both looking south towards Redcliffe. The lake was cut at sharp angles by the knifing wind: exposing the white edge of the water. The town had solidified from a scribble into a collection of distinct outlines, burrowed into the ruddy foundation of the cliffs. Overhead, the castle sat atop its rocky spur like the crown of a dwarven king: lofty, crenellated and oddly menacing. A cluster of fishing boats bobbed between their advancing prow and the shoreline. This cheered Flora greatly: if the villagers were gathering the morning catch, they could not all be dead.
"I need to get dressed," she said into the air, mildly appalled that she was clad in a nightgown during daylight. "We'll make landfall soon. And then- "
"And then what, an exorcism? A purging? A cleansing? These so-called 'senior mages' seem rather tight-lipped about what exactly their ritual entails."
"Eh." Flora realised, rather too late, that she could have interrogated Wynne for details the previous evening. "Dunno. Suppose we'll find out."
AN: So we're on lockdown in Wales and I'm working from home, so updates will be a bit slower since I don't have my hour commute on the train anymore (where I used to write lots!)
Anyway, I really enjoyed writing this chapter - I like that Flora and Alistair are trying to slow things down between them, recognising that it's a bit ridiculous that they were on the verge of shagging without ever having kissed!
Lub dub is actually a cardiological Easter egg - it's the medical term to describe the sound made within the heart when two sets of valves close.
I really like the dynamic that's starting to develop between Morrigan and Flora - it reminds me of the relationship between the sisters in 10 Things I Hate About You (2000s classic!)
Anyway, I hope you are keeping safe and well - what a ridiculous year this has turned out to be so far and we're only a week in ffs hahaha
