Midnight Visits

As he walks to his room, his limbs feel heavy and his thoughts are swimming in a thick fog of drunkenness. He has had worse drunken stupors, but then again – he's also had much better. The corridor is dark, and he puts his hand flat against the wall to keep himself from stumbling. It feels cold against his skin and he takes a deep breath to clear his mind a bit. His head is throbbing in perfect synchronism with his shoulder, even though he can barely feel it anymore. It has been three days since he left the dark little house in Lowtown and fled here to crawl into his bed and forget the adrenaline that ran through his veins, forget the ease with which is muscles remembered the movements. The wound is healed and closed with scab, the skin around it is still of an angry red. It will pale and scar with time and he is glad that he can now start to push the memory aside bit by bit until all that is left is the faint trace of a whisper.

His room is the very last one, deep in the recesses of a little tavern in Darktown and without even a single window. Only an airshaft nestled in one corner admits fresh air and a few rays of sunlight, mostly the room is dark and cold. He does not mind it much, he has a bed and a table with a stool and even a chest that might have had a lock in some distant past. It's good enough. It's all he needs. At long last he reaches his door, his hand brushing over the rough wood, and he pulls the key from his pocket, sliding it into the lock. He does long since know that only when you pull the door towards you and turn the doorknob just the right way and rattle the key a bit, it is actually possible to unlock the door. Considering the full value of his belongings, each and any thief who made it past this door would probably curse him twice and hope the rats would eat him. He chuckles and pushes the door open. Good thing most thieves were not stupid enough to search for gems and gold in Darktown – which was probably the main reason he was still in possession of a set of chainmail that was not all too bad and his sword.

Without bothering to light a candle first he steps inside and throws the door closed behind himself. He doesn't bother to lock it. The chances that somebody will steal him are slim at best. As his eyes adjust to the lack of light and he takes a step towards the bed, he stumbles a bit and almost giggles at the very idea of being stolen. His thoughts are floating this way and that and as he stands there for a moment and then he suddenly sobers, the echo of a night long ago reverberates in his skull almost violently.

Join us…

Goosebumps run up his spine and he grabs the hem of his tunic almost violently, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. The throbbing in his shoulders grows stronger, but he ignores it and then-

"You are drunk again, are you not?", he hears a voice not far to his left and almost jumps out of his skin. Scrambling to get his head out of the tunic and free his arms, he moves back and stumbles against the wall. It takes him longer than it should, but by the time he has ripped the tunic off and thrown it somewhere – anywhere – he registers that what was said was less of a question and more of a statement. It takes him a tiny bit longer to realize that the voice belongs to a woman and is very familiar. After that, all the rest falls into place almost immediately.

His body snaps into action – straighten up – and so does his mind – lift your arm, ready to block – and despite the fact how belayed the reaction is – one foot in front, be light on your toes – and that the only protection he has is experience – steel yourself – he has no fear. He can make her out, sitting on the single chair at the small table in the corner of the room, one leg crossed over the other and her chin resting on her hands. It's the crazy lady from three nights ago, Aífe.

"Di' she send you?", he asks calmly and feels a muscle in his jaw twitch. She had been suspicious from the beginning and it was too much of a coincidence that they would meet in the streets and out of the goodness of her heart she would actually take him with her. The craziness should have been his first sign. The giant mabari warhound his second.

That her word would expire had been clear from the beginning. Women like her did not think much of honor and even less of bastard princes that could be a threat to their throne, no matter how little said bastard prince wanted to sit on a rotten throne in a rotten city to hold a rotten scepter or sword or whatever it was that kings held these days. He had simply assumed that his disposal would happen a bit later when he was completely forgotten by anybody who had once known him and that by then he would not notice it anymore, or perhaps that he would not care anymore. Much. A knife between the ribs or maybe a bit of poison in his wine. Either one would do just fine, he's sure.

"Who?", Aífe asks and her voice pulls him back into the present. She raises her head and stretches her legs, but obviously decides to ignore his defense position. He feels a tinge of annoyance glimmer to life in his belly at her casual behaviour.

"Please, let's no' play games", Alistair responds with a sigh and does not allow himself to relax. He feels the beginning of a cramp pulling at his thigh muscles and almost sighs again, but resists just in time. She is still sitting there and as she shifts her weight slightly, the chair creaks under her weight.

"This conversation starts to confuse me", she finally confides in him after a long pause and cocks her head to the side. He cannot make out her features in the darkness and only sees her silhouette, but he is pretty sure that she is raising an eyebrow at him this very moment.

To be honest, he is getting confused himself but he is not about to admit that. "Ther' are very few reasons someb'dy sneaks 'nto a room 'n waits in the dark, 'specially if swords 'n daggers are involved", he says and notices himself that his words are slurred. A careful look around reveals that she did not bring her hound or her elven friend. Unless they are hiding under his bed. Which seems unlikely.

"At least I did not bring my axe", she offers and probably thinks it is a helpful comment. Which it isn't, because he starts to wonder what else she brought along. "Wait, you do not think I am here to harm you, do you?", she asks the next moment.

"Well, you're certainly no' here t' open a bottl' of Antivan wine 'n share stories 'bout good ol' Ferelden", he snaps and feels his impatience growing, together with his thirst for mentioned bottle of wine. He is tired and slightly tipsy – only ever so little – and if she is about to try and kill him, she should do it now, because he would like to get it over with and go to bed. Preferably alive and relatively unwounded. But then again, the problem of his tiredness will be solved either way, he figures.

"I certainly hope this makes sense in your own head, because out here, in the real world, it does not. If I had the desire to harm you, then I am pretty sure I would have done so without announcing my presence. Or perhaps while you slept. Or while you where almost knocked out on the floor. Or while I bandaged your wound. There were ample opportunities. As a sign of my goodwill, however…", she replies and with a metallic clunck two long fighting daggers land on the floor to his feet, quickly followed by a hunting knife.

He stares at them, mildly baffled, and then slowly lowers his arms again. Looking from the weapons to her, he leans back against the cool wall and runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. "You still have one 'r two blades hidd'n", he accuses her without looking up and sees her shrug out of the periphery of his eyes.

"There is only so much goodwill", she admits and he can feel her eyes on him. "May I light the candle?" He nods and just a few moments later the little stump of a candle is aflame, casting just enough light to illuminate the table and her face while everything else melts into blackness. She is still looking at him, her eyes scanning his body bit by bit until they land on the already healed arrow wound and only then she locks eyes with him. He has the inkling that she will ask to be allowed to look at his teeth any time now to judge his age and state of health. Maybe she will ask for his pedigree. He snorts with false amusement. Well, then she will be in for a bad surprise.

The look in her grey eyes is unnerving – analytical and scanning, processing every detail they take in. She makes him feel vulnerable and he grows aware of his lack of tunic, folding his arms in front of his chest and shifting his weight from one foot to the other until she finally breaks eye contact for a moment to move the candle to the middle of the small table.

"So…", he starts when she says nothing for quite a while, "You're no' exactly assassin-y." She blinks ins surprise and then looks down to give herself a once-over, before she raises an eyebrow at him: "And here I thought the blackened leather together with the daggers would fit the image perfectly." There is a smile twitching around her lips and after a moment she continues: "If it pleases you, I could draw my hood over my head and try to hide in one of the dark corners in this room as I proceed to cackle madly."

"Haha", he says dryly and shakes his head, unsure what to make of her. "You ten' t' give yourself rather dramatic entries", he says and makes a wide gesture with one hand and she chuckles, her eyes lighting up. He almost stumbles over the words, his tongue heavy with wine and so he speaks slowly and carefully.

"And you tend to strip out of your clothes a lot – and yet I am not judging you", she replies then and he is glad the wine has already reddened his face.

"Technically", he defends himself, "'tis no' my fault. 't happens in your wake 'r 'cause you decide t' sit 'n stare instead of maybe sayin' that you're here."

"And here I thought it was because of my sparkling personality", Aífe says dryly and manages a wistful glance at the ceiling that looks almost believable. She is still sitting very still as if she wants to give him time to adjust and relax – he doesn't and is not planning on, though. Even though it seems unlikely by now that she will attack, she has no reason to be here.

"Why're you here? Why 'd you lock the door b'hind you? How'd you even fin' me?", Alistair demands to know and shakes his head, casting a quick glance to the door. He is not quite sure what to make of her and her presence here or how to proceed. There will obviously not be a fight to the death. And he has not even a bottle of beer or ale or wine or anything that would give his hands something to do. His heartbeat has slowed down a bit, but the blood is still rushing through his veins and his thoughts are getting clearer. He doesn't like it. It defies the whole purpose of the last few hours of drinking.

"I am sorry I entered your room uninvited, but I tried waiting outside. There are rather few women here, though, and sometime after midnight I was invited to accompany a man to his room. I refused, he called me a particularly naughty girl, one thing led to another and I broke his nose. The owner of this fine little establishment asked me to wait perhaps somewhere else and gave me the key after a few people started to look like they might want to take part in a little fight. I locked the door behind me, so as not to scare you needlessly", she explains.

"Well done…", he mutters and she wrinkles her nose at him, once again deciding to ignore that comment for the moment.

"In any case", she continues, "to find you was rather easy. I knew your name and how you looked and then I just asked around in the taverns in Lowtown, especially at the Hanged Man. There they could pinpoint me to Darktown and with a few coins of investment, I could find you quite quickly. From then on it was just a matter of patience – and so here I am now." As she talks she moves the chair a bit to the side, so she can fully face him. The flickering light of the candle is hardly enough to illuminate the room and as she moves, she moves further into the shadows.

"I came to make you an offer, I want to hire you", she tells him and from one moment to another all humor is gone from her voice. She looks straight at him and inclines her head slightly, as though she is thinking about her next words.

Despite the fact that he has to concentrate hard to focus on her, he slowly begins to register all the little details about her. As before her hair is pulled up into a tight bun, this time there are no escaping strands of hair and it makes her look very serious. Her armor is made of darkened leather that is superb to say the least – he has seen the material before and knows its Drake leather. The collar is made high so as to protect her neck and her left arm is protected by a bracer made of Drake bone, while other parts of bone were used to form little plates of bone that were then stitched onto the chest of her armor so as to provide further protection. It is too dark to make out more than that, but it alone tells him that she is no ordinary noble. Few are able to afford such an armor and even fewer know a smith capable enough of making it.

She has her fingers folded in her lap, but he does not need to see them. He remembers that they are a bit rough and that there is a small scar just above her left hand joint, almost invisible now. He does not doubt for a moment that the leather and bone she is wearing are from a Drake she herself fought – and that tells him all he wants to know. She is trouble and he should start running now.

He recoils and shakes his head, finally turning away from her, and pretends to look for his lost tunic. "'m no' interested", he says and hopes it will be enough to make her go away. But he knows already that she is not a type of person dissuaded this easily.

"It would be just tomorrow night and the day after that. I pay fifty silver straight up, as long as you do not leave before everything is done", she continues as though she has not heard him. "Fifty silvers is more than you can earn here in a month and all I ask for is your silence and your sword skills." She unfolds her limbs now and stands up, slowly. He automatically turns to face her and realizes that she is not as tall as he thought she was – she barely reaches his chin with the top of her head.

"There's a mercenary guil' here, they're called Red Iron", he answers her, "They'll be mos' happy t' help." Aífe takes a step closer and frowns at him, waving his statement of with a movement of her arm.

"I do not want to hire the Red Iron or the Dog Lords or whichever other band of thugs call themselves a guild. On the contrary, I need somebody who is not in one of those guilds, this cannot be in any official records of any sort. You are in no guild and you do not seem to have many connections here in Kirkwall – and I have seen that you can fight. Probably even more so, if you manage to stay away from a bottle for a day or two. I need a warrior, not a mercenary", she explains and while there is no sharpness in her words, they still sting somewhat. He snorts in response, finally spots his tunic and picks it up off the floor to give himself more time to think.

"Guilds always talk. Information is part of their business. They are mercenaries and by definition alone they will work for the highest bidder. I have had a look at the Red Iron and they are thugs at best, they will not feel any obligation to hold true to their contract once somebody with more gold strolls along. I have no use for a thug only interested in money", she continues when he doesn't say anything and he pulls the tunic over his head. Closing his eyes makes his head spin worse and he has a hard time to keep himself from stumbling.

"Maybe 'm one 'f those", he replies finally and takes a step towards her, using his height to tower over her. She does not even flinch a bit, it is almost insulting. "Maybe I jus' want gold, maybe 'm a thug 'n a thief 'n I'll sell you t' the highest bidder insane 'nough 't ask after you."

She has the nerve to smile and he clenches his teeth. "If you were, Alistair, then we would not have this discussion", she answers evenly and seems so very sure that he wants to physically pick her up, put her outside the door and close it behind her. No, scratch that, slam the door behind her. Just because. She is too sure, too glib, too cocky, she is too much. And worst of all, for some reason she seems to think he is honorable, Maker help him.

"I do not know you, that is true", she admits when he keeps glaring at her and inclines her head apologetically, "I do know, though, that you are a warrior. I know you can fight and that you have seen your share of battles. You did not run away from them – or if you did, you are not very good at running away. I would have guessed that you stayed and faced your enemies."

All but the most important one, he wants to say and feels his hands tremble ever so slightly. He closes his fingers to a fist until his knuckles turn white with pressure, but he does not avert his gaze from her. "I know you are in no guild and you are not involved in any of the business here in Kirkwall. I have my sources, trust me. I know you like to drink and that probably more often than not, but that was not hard to deduce even without asking anybody. I know you are not part of any of the guilds here, even though the Red Iron as well as the Dog Lords tries to hire you. I know that you are one of the few options I have here in Kirkwall."

How charming, he thinks and it probably shows on his face because she rolls her eyes at him.

"Don't pout", she admonishes him and he takes a step back, away from her. He feels like he needs to be as far away from her as possible, but refuses to give in to the urge to flee.

"Maybe I am wrong, but I think you are honorable enough to keep true to your word and help me out", she adds after a bit, almost like a challenge.

"You don' know…", he starts to say. A thing, he wants to add, but instead takes another step back and away from those analytical eyes, from her.

"I don' smuggle", Alistair almost barks when he sees no other way out, "'n I don' steal 'n I don' do slavery 'r mage business 'r murders…" He would have continued, were it not for the look on her face. She looks like she is about to chuckle and he glares at her in the vain hope it might deter her. To his non-surprise, it doesn't.

"Good thing I do not plan any of that for the next few days, then", she interrupts him simply and finally turns to leave, picking up her weapons one by one and sliding them back into their scabbards. "Meet me in front of the southern city gate one hour before sunset tomorrow, bring your best armor and weapons and do not drink anything until then and until we are done. Tell nobody where you are going or that you will meet me. I cannot tell you the details just now, but I will explains things on the way tomorrow."

"I di' no' say yes 'n you're no' even tellin' me what 'tis 'bout", he calls after her when she walks to the door and she looks back over her shoulder at him, shrugging.

"I promise it is something very important and necessary. And you did not say no, either", she answers and he figures that she is either very selectively deaf or just a master of ignorance. Either way, he has not promised a thing, there is no need for him to show up. He can simply change lodgings and stay put for a bit until she lost his trail and-

"Please", she adds then when he doesn't reply and he heaves a very heavy sigh. Perhaps he could just have a look tomorrow and if it is something he does not like, he can just turn around and walk away. He is a free man, after all, with no obligations or duties. And he could use the silver, to be honest. He has barely anything left from his last contract.

As she stands there at the door and looks at him, awaiting his response, he knows that she is bad news. He has been in hibernation for almost a year and he was just fine. He knows how to stay put, how to forget, how to ignore the desire to feel the adrenaline rush through his veins and to hear his own heartbeat in his ears. He knows how to drown thoughts when they become too loud and how to forget who he once was. He knows how to run away until all that's left is him, at least for a while.

"'ll walk you home", he hears himself say and moves before he can so much as stop himself. "Darktown's no' a good place t' be at night." She smiles at him and opens the door, slightly pulling out one of her daggers for effect. "Do not worry about me. I can take care of myself", she assures him, "Just be there tomorrow and be ready for a fight. Good night, Alistair."

With that she slips out, the door falling closed behind her and he is left alone in his room. He feels the anticipation, can hear his blood sing and he knows he is in trouble. Real trouble.

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Author's comment:

Finally the next chapter. =) I worked over it quite a few times, trying to get Aífe's tone right and keep everything believable. I hope that I could manage that it the chapter makes sense as I put it and you enjoyed it. I want to thank Emma and Freja for reading over this for me! Thank you so much, your support is worth so much for me! And special thanks to Emma for helping me choose the chapter title! :D
I would be very happy for any constructive critisim, suggestions and discussion! Let me know what you think of this chapter and whether you're actually a bit curious as to what Aífe is up to. Thanks for reading and thanks to everybody favouriting and following these and my others stories. :) Thank you so much, you make my day!