Isobel woke with a low groan. She ached all over, from her head to her feet. All of the constant moving and fighting and moving had finally caught up with her, it seemed. Overindulgence merely ushered it along. Her first move was to kick the thick blanket off of herself, her skin slippery with ale-scented perspiration. The movement rolled her stomach, and she was hit with a wave of nausea so strong it sprung goosebumps on her arms. Clutching at her head, she struggled to sit up as slowly as possible, blinking her bleary eyes in an attempt to look around the room.
It was empty. Where was Alistair? Peeling the blanket from her legs, she pulled it aside. As her stomach settled, she brought herself into an upright position and ran her hands through her hair. She felt like death itself. Her predictions the previous night had been all too true.
Sliding her legs off of the bed, Isobel took a deep breath, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Thankfully she remembered where she was. She remembered the events of the previous night clearly enough, though some of his words were muddied up beyond belief. She didn't remember much after they made their way back into the room, however, which worried her for a brief moment. But then she realized who she'd been accompanied by. He wasn't the sort of man to take advantage.
She breathed a sigh of relief, but she still hadn't garnered the strength to stand up without falling. Her ankles felt like jelly; she knew her knees were probably not much stronger. There was no way they'd be able to leave today. They'd be stuck in Denerim for another night, and Cailan wouldn't be very pleased with them. Not at all. She hoped he wouldn't send out a search party. That would spoil things considerably. She was sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, silently going over her thoughts despite the dull ache in her head.
A short time later, she heard the door cracking open. Glancing up from the floor, she saw Alistair peeking in. When he saw that she was awake, he took a long step in and shut the door behind him. In his hand was a plate, and his cheek was puffed out.
Before he was able to speak, he chewed on whatever he was eating, a grin curling at his lips when he finished. "A midday meal?" he asked, offering her the thick pewter plate. On the plate was a hunk of cheese, some bread, and a bit of meat. Isobel groaned inwardly and shook her head, suddenly nauseated all over again. Alistair's smile faltered. "More worse for wear than you expected?"
"Mm," she nodded, an arm curling around her middle. "You're… chipper this morning."
Alistair chuckled. "I didn't drink as much as you did," he reminded her, setting himself down in the chair where he'd slept. "And it's not morning. Nowhere near morning, actually." He paused, looking her over. "I figured you weren't going to be feeling well enough to make the trip back to camp," he continued, tearing off a bit of bread and scooping up a small bit of the creamy cheese. This was heaven for the Grey Warden. A comfy chair, a bit of cheese, and no repercussions from any merrymaking. "We have this room for another night."
"Thoughtful," was the only response she could muster. There would be no standing up, not yet. Instead, she rested her head gingerly back down on the pillow and curled back up. "That was a really bad idea."
Leaning his head against the back of the chair, Alistair rocked it with his foot, eyes gone to the ceiling. It was a decent establishment, very homey. "Yes," he laughed, "It was a bad idea. Fun while it lasted, though, of what I can remember." In truth, he didn't remember much of the previous night. He could recall brief flashes. His impression of Arryn, Isobel's almost belly busting laughter, mentioning Cailan, the end of said laughter.
Before he knew it, he could hear Isobel's even breathing. Even over the creaking of the rocking chair, he could hear each breath she took and released. Looking over to her, he smiled to himself before taking another hearty bite out of the loaf.
It was easy for Alistair to amuse himself while Isobel slept. After finishing off his food, he left her to rest, venturing out into the market to pass the time. The men and women who staffed the shops and stalls were implicitly kind to him, which startled him at first, but he soon grew to enjoy it. Before he knew it, an hour had drawn past and he was carrying more things than he knew what to do with. Cradling his purchases, all acquired at a discount, Alistair made his way back to the tavern, trying his best to avoid running into any doors or people.
When he arrived back at the room, he found Isobel seated on the bed with her back against the simply carved headboard. The fact that she was eating was the first thing he noticed. She was sipping what he assumed was soup out of a bowl. It smelled wonderful, and Alistair felt his stomach grumble. "Feeling any better?" he asked, wandering over to the bed and placing everything in a heap at the foot of it.
Isobel glanced at the pile of merchandise with a curious gleam in her eye. "I didn't know you were carrying around a small goldmine in your pack," she murmured, taking another long slurp of soup before setting the bowl aside, her attention grasped by what he'd bought. The first thing that caught her eye was a ribbon, and she stifled a laugh. "I can't believe you actually bought him a ribbon." She lifted it up out of the small pile. It was soft and made of a rich emerald green fabric. Weaving it through her fingers, she looked up at Alistair, whose cheeks had flushed a deep shade of pink.
"That's, uh, not for Cailan," he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I got that for you. Your hair gets into your eyes a lot. Not that I've been watching you." He laughed again, slightly louder, to mask his own embarrassment. "It matches your eyes," he offered, his shoulder lifting in a nonchalant gesture. You idiot, that's even worse.
Instead of being offended or disturbed, he watched as a smile bloomed on her lips. "You really are thoughtful." In a few short movements, she'd tied her hair back with the ribbon, and she was still smiling despite her persistent headache. Alistair's eyes dropped to her neck. Her skin still gleamed from the warmth of the room. Gulping, he turned to his wares instead.
"There was an apothecary who offered to sell me a recipe or two for a good price," he said as he fingered the small wad of parchment. "All of the other things are what's needed around the camp. I've heard the men often complaining of the things they miss having. They're not used to being so poorly supplied. I only wish they could've come into Denerim. They could carry much more than I can."
"Don't worry about that," Isobel assured him. Picking up a tiny vial, she rolled it around in the palm of her hand. It was filled with a thin, nearly clear liquid. Removing the stopper, she brought it to her nose and took a whiff. Alistair lifted a hand to stop her, but the gesture did not register in time. Her senses were instantly overwhelmed. Clearly, she'd taken too hefty a smell. The scent lingered even after she'd replaced the stopper. As it faded, the smell became more tolerable. It faded into something both sweet and spicy, like an exotic landscape she couldn't quite place. It certainly wasn't Ferelden-made. "What is that?"
Alistair gave a nervous laugh. "You don't like it?"
"It's not that. It's… strong, that's for sure, but it's nice." Placing the vial delicately back into its place, she looked up at him. "But what is it? I can't place the smell."
"It's Antivan," he said quietly, plucking up the vial and pocketing it. "One of the few scents they had. Cheaper than the Orlesian ones, and less overpowering if used sparingly." He looked down at his hands, "And I don't really enjoy smelling like a flower."
Isobel gave a snort of laughter. "It's perfume!"
Alistair's cheeks darkened another shade. "Yes, well. It's for men, I assure you. That's what the woman keeping the stall told me." He didn't much care for being teased, even if it was by her. It made him self-conscious and extremely uncomfortable. He shifted on his feet. "Have you eaten enough? You were asleep for nearly all day. Surely a bowl of soup isn't enough…"
She bit back a smile. He was changing the subject. Instead of pushing forward even more, Isobel took the bait. "Actually, I'd really like something else. Anything else." Her stomach growled at the thought of putting more food into it, and she rubbed it absently. "I've been so hungry lately."
"That's the taint," he replied simply. "We all become ravenous beasts and would take down a bear if we got desperate and hungry enough. With our bare hands." The two shared a smile before he left the room to find her something to eat. She could still smell the Antivan scent, and as she sat there, breathing it in, she grew to like it.
When he returned with a similar plate he'd offered her earlier, she took it without hesitation. Nodding to the edge of the bed, she took a large bite out of the bread, shutting her eyes at the taste. She loved bread.
Alistair moved all of his things to the other side of the bed before sitting down. "Do you think Cailan's going to react badly when he finds out why we haven't returned in a day as was planned?" she asked, chewing thoughtfully. "Surely he knows we might've been caught up. Denerim isn't the most lawful of places." She passed her thumb along her lip to dust off any crumbs. "That's not likely to keep him from sending out a search party, is it?"
"If we leave very early tomorrow, we should be able to intercept any search party he sends," Alistair murmured, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. "I don't see why he would, though. The two of us would fare better than a dozen. Crowded though Denerim may be, Loghain no doubt has eyes scattered everywhere. It's amazing how quickly Cailan is to doubt me." He cleared his throat. "Us. Doubt us."
Isobel arched an eyebrow. While she wasn't usually one to pry, there was a story here. She knew there was. Alistair's reactions to mere mentions of Cailan were odd, as well as his reactions to the king himself. But when they were along, he was particularly harsh, and Isobel could not see why. "I don't mean to impose," she began slowly, and her tone caused Alistair's stomach to tighten, "but I have a question. It's about you and Cailan."
Alistair's lips thinned into a crooked line. "What about Cailan and me? Ask anything. I shouldn't hold anything back from you." He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to open up old wounds or throw salt into new ones. He didn't see any way around it short of lying, and he didn't want to lie to her. He'd confess a painful truth one thousand times before lying to her.
"What's going on between you two? It seems one-sided, but I assumed there was something wrong. I know I shouldn't assume things, but I couldn't help but notice." As she settled in to hear Alistair's story, she finished off the small chunk of cheese on her plate and began picking at the sausage. What he said, though, stopped her chewing entirely.
"We're… brothers," Alistair sighed, "Half-brothers. I'm almost completely sure he doesn't know about me." Isobel's lips parted in shock. She'd expected something along the lines of jealousy or former friendship dashed to little more than indifference. Nothing like that. Alistair saw her expression and begrudgingly continued. "Maric was my father. Obviously the royal bastard isn't acknowledged, and I have spent most of my life trying to accept that." He took a deep breath and released it in a heavy sigh. "I… I don't really want to talk about it. Or Cailan. Can we talk about you instead?"
Isobel tilted her head to the side. "Are you sure?" she asked, her hand settling on Alistair's wrist. It felt like the only comfort she could give him.
While it was a small action, he felt a warmth spread up from her fingers and fill him. He nodded. "I'd much rather hear about your parents, about your childhood and your brother." She'd spoken with such levity of them before that he expected the same now. He thought he'd be regaled with tales of her elder brother playing tricks on her or her mother teaching her how to swing a sword and be a gentlewoman in the same afternoon, about sticking up for the other children when they were harassed by the city bullies, absolutely anything to take his mind off of his own situation.
That was not what he received. Instead, she went on to tell him about her final night in Highever. His dark mood had rubbed off on her, and she finally felt it was time to vocalize that sliver of memory that was a constant source of imbalance. She did not cry a single tear as she told him about finding Fergus's wife and child slain and about Ser Gilmore. Even as she recounted her final conversation with her parents, her expression remained stony.
"And then I told them that I loved them," she finished, her voice gone quiet. "They said they loved me, too. I left not long after that. Duncan had to drag me most of the way. I could hardly feel my feet. I couldn't feel anything."
Alistair's eyes fell to his lap only to find that her hand was still on his wrist. Turning his palm over, he laced his fingers with hers, bringing her hand up to his lips. Her eyes welled at this, and she wiped the tears away before she could shed them. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know where that came from," she gushed, punctuating her apology with a nervous laugh. "I've just waited so long to tell that to someone. When you asked about my family, it just came flooding out."
"I can't believe you've been able to keep it in for so long. It's been more than a month, hasn't it?" She nodded, her features gone placid again. He looked at her with an expression that was easily interpreted as awe. "And you've been fighting all this time. You are something else, Isobel."
All he could remember was that day in Castle Redcliffe, finding her in the hallway, her face red and distorted as she finally let herself be overcome. The strong urge to comfort her returned at the memory, and he reached forward to curl an arm around her waist and guide her forward. She accepted his embrace without a moment's hesitance. Her head came to rest against his chest, her own arms curled snuggly around his waist. He was so warm, and he smelled faintly of that Antivan perfume. With each breath she took, she grew to like the scent even more.
Alistair rested his chin on the top of her head, his arms wrapped around her as she lingered. A simple hug wore on, but he did not mind it. She was not a light woman; it was the heaviness in her limbs that kept him holding onto her. There was no fear of breaking her.
His heart was tight in his chest, and he feared she would be able to hear it race. If she did, she said nothing of it.