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Alone, and at a loss, Alistair stood in the middle of the spacious room and looked around. Two wide windows looking out over the side yard, onto what appeared to be a small herb garden and several apple trees ready for harvest; the lower frames were lined with pillows. The weather was favorable so the shutters were opened wide, filling the room with the afternoon's light.
There was a large desk with only a stack of papers and ledgers on it and two hard-looking chairs in front of it, facing the windows. A quick glance revealed they were tracking funds towards the rebuilding of Amaranthine. He knew the Grey Wardens were the driving force to the rebuilding, but he had no idea how much she was putting of her own fortune into it. As the assassin had said, treasure had a way of finding her.
Every wall in this room was covered with bookcases, paintings, and maps; the shelves looked as if they were going to collapse any moment from the astounding number of scrolls and tomes and little mementos stuffed onto them. Mixed in all the chaos were little statues and carvings, some holding pieces of jewelry or small etched symbols of the Chantry.
One set of shelves in particular caught his eye – many shallow dishes filled with ordinary looking rocks. Then he looked a little closer. Each rock seemed to have a brownish stain, from the size of a drop to most of the stone being covered. It looked like blood. "Creepy." He muttered to himself and moved away.
An empty armor stand was next to the door he just entered. There was an unlit fireplace in one corner with two comfy looking chairs in front of it. A small wooden flute rested in a velvet-lined box on the mantle. Next to the fireplace was a partially open door. From what he could see it led to a bedroom. He was considering the temptation when he heard muffled voices outside.
"Ser, you really should go see the healer!"
"Nonsense, it's just a bruise…maybe a few broken ribs. I've had much worse. Stop fussing!"
The door opened to the Grey Warden and a dwarven female walked in after, carrying a dirt-encrusted chain mail coat. Calitae barely spared him a glance as she walked straight to the bedroom but the squire practically squeaked when she noticed the man standing in the room, "But you could have a concu - oh! Pardon, messenger! I'll just leave this here, then. Pardon me, good day." The squire quickly hung the armor on a stand next to the door and slipped out.
Alistair looked back towards the bedroom, uncertain. Calitae was standing with her back to him in front of a mirror, wearing her fighting leathers and a dark green long-sleeved tunic, also mud-stained. She had lifted her shirt half up and was looking at her injury. Her entire side was a deepening red and purple bruise and he could hear her hiss through her teeth as she gingerly touched it. He couldn't help but stare; the years had been kind. She looked as if she had barely aged and was still lean and strong, but there was something definitely more feminine about her now. She had also grown her hair out and tied it into a long rope down her back; he could see there were objects braided in near the end.
She dropped the shirt and turned towards him, revealing muddy streaks on her face; combined with the tattoos, it made for a frightening mask. She slowly removed her sword belts with a grimace of pain, "Highly unusual for Harl to let someone in my room, let alone a messenger unattended. Something must be import – oh!" She cut off as she looked at the 'messenger's' face, her eyes widening in recognition. At least to one familiar with his appearance, there was no mistaking who he truly was, beard or not, although she had to admit that the outfit was a smart diversion from scrutiny. There was a small touch of gray at his temples and he had thickened slightly but the throne didn't seem to have softened him too much.
Emotions flickered across her features as she looked him over; of all the people of her past, she wasn't expecting him. She closed her mouth and gestured at his outfit. "Well, did you get demoted before or after you grew that thing on your face?"
Not quite the reaction he was expecting, he reverted to his defense of jokes, "Hey, I think I look dashing!" He gave a crooked grin and self-consciously started to smooth his beard. As he pushed off the cowl, he ran his hand through his hair in that familiar gesture, "And nice to see you too! Did you try and stop a bronco with your ribs?"
Calitae rolled her eyes, then turned away to hang up the weapons, "No, Berrick got lucky with that boulder he swings around and then the fence caught me. I'm not entirely convinced it didn't jump in the way on purpose."
"Uhm, ouch? Maybe your armor carrier was right about the healer because that looks pretty bad. And since when do you have other people carry your things? You swore this whole "Hero" thing wouldn't get to your head." He felt like he was going to throw up, but at least she hadn't tried to kill him. There was still plenty of daylight left, though.
"She insists and I pick my battles. This is an…unexpected surprise but what are you doing here, your Majesty?" She turned away to scrub the mud off, her mind racing. She felt like someone had yanked the rug out from under her feet. Calitae didn't know if this breathless feeling was from half of her ribcage being caved in or seeing him again but she wasn't about to admit it was the latter; she wasn't some swooning, love-sick maiden – at least not in front of an audience. She scrubbed her face viciously with the towel.
Her vision swam with the physical exertion and she gritted her teeth against the pain, leaning heavily on the washstand. She could hear him move into the room behind her, stopping close enough she could feel the air move. Part of her wished he would just reach across those last inches and just touch her. His voice was deep with concern, "Are you okay?"
She winced while attempting to sigh, "No, not really. Everyone looks at me like I'm some sort of… I don't know what, but invincible nonetheless. I try not to disappoint them. Stick your head out the door; I'm sure Chey will still be there, fretting like an old woman. Ask her to send the healer and some wine up…please…Your Majesty." She smirked at him then gingerly walked to the chairs in the study while he did as she asked. "You didn't answer my question."
"I believe you asked more than one." He moved to one of the window seats, partially to put the desk between them; he just wanted to touch her. The vision of her hand wrapping around that man's arm, his lips on her forehead, came back unbidden. Alistair was thankful she wasn't looking at him in that instant.
"You know what I mean."
"Oh, well, I had never had a beard before and the dwarves sport them so well. I'm thinking about adding some braids in once it gets long enough, what do you think?"
Alistair held her gaze with an innocent look as she raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder, "You stroke that thing like a prized cat. Are you in any trouble?"
He grinned, "You say that like I was always in trouble and you had to keep rescuing me."
She shook her head in exasperation, "You could be quite the handful at times. Put your cowl back up, the healer is at the top of the stairs. She's more observant than she looks. Enter!"
The door swung open to the dwarven girl carrying a tray followed by a stocky older woman. "Warden, you need to stop with these antics, you're not getting any younger, hero or not. Shirt up. Maker save me, why don't you just throw yourself off the battlements, it'll be quicker." Scolding the elf constantly, the healer worked her magic while the squire hovered by the desk.
Alistair smiled at the impatient look on Calitae's face as she complained, "Chey, I'm not going to die any time soon - at least not from this. I swear the two of you are trying to make up for all the years I didn't have a mother in a week's time. Ouch!" She glowered at the healer as she rubbed the back of her head. "What was that for?"
"Be respectful. You should take care of yourself. And rest! You look like you haven't been sleeping again." Calitae glanced at Alistair then looked away. Not getting a response from her patient, the healer looked over her shoulder to give the messenger a piercing glare, his smile vanishing under the look. He certainly didn't envy his old friend as the healer turned back. "I suggest a bath too, or you'll be stiff tomorrow."
"Yes, yes… thank you, Merta." Injury tended to, the healer stomped out with the elf trailing after her. "Chey? I don't wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening. You get the night off, and then remember to report to Silva tomorrow on time." Chey looked as if she was going to argue. "That will be everything. Thank you for all your assistance and remember: don't be afraid to let go." Dismissed, the squire saluted the dwarf with an almost reverence and closed the door behind her.