AN:
Disclaimer: Dragon Age world doesn't belong to me.
Chapter 14 - Where to?
They drank quietly for a while. The need of talk was little, each lost in musings of their own. Clarice had opened a bottle of chasind mead.
"Where did you get this poison?"
"Say that I have a source… Any good?"
Alistair took another gulp. Bitter, to say the least.
"Fitting."
It took a long time for any of them to speak again.
"You could have had my head, this morning. I defied you, after all…" she bent her maimed left hand, thoughtfully.
"Indeed, it crossed my mind…"
It took a while, for the meaning to get to her. Clarice snorted.
"I can't die yet. Things to do."
"Right. Your beloved Highever. …Would you" – Alistair hesitated – "would you have rebelled? Taken arms against me?"
"Would you have my head if I said such now?"
"Would you have?" There was no hesitation in Alistair's question now.
Clarice measured her drink, thoughtfully.
"That is a question, Your Majesty. I would like to think not. I'd like to think I'm as loyal to the crown as any and most. But then, a cornered beast is as a beast does. My – my second nature - could have taken over." She raised her eyes towards him, as if daring him to say that wasn't true. "So, in all honesty, I don't know. Will you have my head?"
"No."
Alistair raised his cup.
"I do appreciate honesty, my Lady."
Silence fell again.
The bottle went down quickly. Without words, Clarice went to her tent and brought another.
She spoke first, after what appeared to have been a considerable brooding over the matter.
"I don't need p-pity." It was hard to talk through clenched jaws.
"Oh, but you find no pity here, my dear lady." Alistair replied, equally addled. "I'm merely cum-, cum- commiserating…"
"So, er… what would you've had me do? Chores?"
Alistair coughed loudly in his cup.
"Now, there's an idea. A little h-humility wouldn't hurt your complexion."
She laughed. Alistair smiled too, pleased that he'd managed to say 'complexion' without stuttering.
They were at the third when he spoke again.
"…knew Duncan?" Alistair was struggling with his mead.
"Yes, th' one conscripting me…"
"…hailed from Highever, too, you know. I thought that maybe I'll build a m-monument for him or something..."
"Will do. After we get rid of the demons."
"We?"
"I… me and my brother… and some mages, we'll definitely need some mages…"
Clarice filled the cups again, with an unsteady hand. Alistair measured her with one eye open.
"…Your hair…"
"My hair?"
'Have I ever told you I really like the way you wear your hair?' Oh. That'd been …someone, saying it to someone else. He'd overheard. Or, he thought he had. And why was he remembering this now? He was blind-drunk. Blind… Somebody was blind, and that was a very sad thing in itself, but that somebody wasn't him, and he didn't really want to remember. That was the reason he'd wanted to get drunk in the first place.
"Your Majesty?"
"Huh?"
"You were saying…"
"…mm…"
"…something about my hair?"
"Why, yes. It wasn't always white, was it?"
Thud.
The King had fallen. Fallen asleep, that was. He had fallen asleep quite indecently lain on one side, with his mouth open. But he was in fact a very decent king. A decent king to die for, even, even if he couldn't hold his liquor. Definitely, he couldn't. He couldn't have been left to lie about like that.
Drunk as she was, Clarice Cousland staggered on her feet and lifted the sleeping king up on her shoulder, much like one would a sack of grain. She wobbled, making a winding course to the royal tent, which she reached perhaps after a triple number of treads than it would have normally taken her, and she deposed the sleeping king inside, in a way of saying. More specifically, she offhandedly dropped him from her whole impressive height of six feet two and lost her own balance in the process, landing squarely above him.
"Aw."
"Sorry, m'King."
"Alistair. Nobody calls me Alistair these days. …'xcept Anora when she's angry." He was surprisingly coherent for a drunk king.
"Alist'r. Ghh-right. 've to go." Clarice found that rising on one's elbows was particularly hard at the moment.
…
"Oh sod. Oh, sod. Oh, sodding sodding sod. "
Alistair woke up with a start. Through half-open eyelids, he could see a certain lady crouched in the center of his tent, wide awake and very angry. Maker, had he just shared a bed with this woman?
"Stop swearing. You're not helping."
"What with? I – uh – forgive me, your Majesty."
"What seems to be the problem? I have a headache too, you know."
"Er… It's late. Everybody is awake. And I fell asleep in your tent, your Majesty."
"I thought I asked you to call me Alistair."
"You remember that?"
"I … - think - …I do. I have a way with that. With the thinking, I mean."
"Sorry?"
"Uh, nevermind." '…why was he even trying to jest? But he was much too light-headed to actually care.
"So, I fell asleep in your tent, Alistair. And you're kind of the King, and you're kind of married. And everyone is awake. And we have to get out of this tent, eventually."
"Oh, sod."
"That's what I said."
"How do we fix it?"
"We don't. We get out. I go ahead."
Huh. He'd gotten too used to Kallian and Leliana's nimble ways. He could bet those two would have come up with something in a glimpse. No such to be expected of this lady, though.
"Headfirst, then."
Clarice Cousland wasn't smiling.
"You're not funny, my King."
"Are you taunting me?"
"Why not? If your wits are failing you one morning, wouldn't you like your friends to tell you?"
"Ah, now we're getting all sweet and sentimental. But, honestly, we'll need a plan."
"A plan? What for? Evading a tent?"
"Perhaps we could stay here until everyone else is asleep again?"
This time she did laugh – that husky, brisk hoot of hers, with her face hidden in her hands – but she did. Alistair found he liked to hear the sound of it. One could be sure Clarice Cousland wasn't the kind to laugh a lot. He topped it, making use of his most sultry voice.
"Or, you know, we could create a diversion…"
Her shoulders were shaking now, her laughter lined with a half hysterical undertone.
"This is idiotic…"
"My dear lady, I am deeply hurt. If you don't like my reasoning, why don't you do some yourself?"
"Fine!… What sort of diversion does my liege have in mind?"
A commotion was heard outside and a quick approaching of steps, which made them both quiet.
"Your Majesty? Are you awake?" ser Mhairi called from outside.
"Not yet!" Alistair theatrically called back.
She kept her face hidden. "Bad, bad thinking, your Majesty…"
Alistair couldn't rightly fathom why, but Clarice Cousland's distress seemed to amuse him to no end. This though, did not sit well with the lady at all.
"You're not doing this on purpose, … are you? Sod…"
Sober all of a sudden, she reached for the closest weapon, which happened to be Alistair's sword, and she landed a high blow against the one main pole of the tent. As they crumbled together in an entanglement of canvas and ropes, she hissed close to his ear –
"Here's your diversion, your Majesty."
"What in the Maker's name…?"
Ser Mhairi stood and stared at the sight of her sovereign and lady Cousland emerging from the ruins of the royal tent.
"It was all my mistake. I somehow got entangled with one of the ropes, as I was coming from the brook. I deeply apologize, your Majesty." Clarice Cousland dropped on one knee, looking all contrite.
"It's nothing, my Lady. After all, these things do have their way of happening all the time," Alistair replied cheerfully, before bending to presumably smooth his clothes and muttering through his teeth "…and I mean you, waving a blade over my head…"
"Sorry…" Clarice whispered back with a mean look.
Alistair straightened himself.
"See, lady Cousland, no harm done." He offered a hand to help her back on her feet. "May I venture a guess that you didn't have breakfast either? Come join me if you please, I would very much like to grab a bite."
They remained in the camp for one more day.
Ser Kirn was not fit to travel, and, in the light of the most recent news, Alistair welcomed the delay, using the time to recollect himself. He didn't want to think about any of the day past just yet, so he mingled among the few who were sparring at the back of the tents. He didn't put much heart in it, though, and nobody dared try him in the least, so he gave up soon enough and set to sharpen and grease his sword.
About mid-day, they all stopped to grab a bite and Alistair went to the brook to wash. Something, or, rather, someone, threw a passing shade on the spot where Alistair was freshening up.
"Oy, come out!" he shouted, and he was quite successful. The shadow materialized in front of him in the shape of Zevran.
"Shh. They might hear you."Zevran whispered quickly, much like he feared something.
"Huh. They're friends."
"This woman you are travelling with – she is no friend, I tell you. I've seen her before."
"Riiight." Alistair spoke loudly.
"Shh."
"Don't shh me, better tell me how she is."
"Which one? "
"Leliana, of course."
"You know?"
"Yes, she told me." Alistair gestured towards the camp. "I presume you've seen Leliana. So, how is she?"
"Alright, I suppose, given the circumstances… Wait, she told you, and you are still in her camp, fraternizing?"
Alistair was definitely not in the need to explain himself.
"Kallian taught us to forgive, has she not? I'll decide who I'm fraternizing with."
"So be it, then. Who am I to challenge the choices of the King of Ferelden? "
"Right… whatever. Tell me, what are you up to?"
Zevran rose an eyebrow, suspicious at once.
"Why should I tell you? You keep the wrong company, as far as I'm concerned."
"Not as wrong as you might think. But then again, I might just have my reasons. Not that they" – Alistair hastened to add, pointing vaguely towards the camp – "know any of it. Are you trying to find Wynne?"
"Yes. But we didn't find any lead at the Circle, Morrigan and I. She went ahead, trying to reach the girls. Those two went to Denerim, hoping to find something there, and should be on their way to the Tower."
So, Kallian and Leliana had been to Denerim. He had it, the proof that the whole thing at the Royal Palace had been their work. Alistair's mind was reeling.
"Listen, Zevran. I know we haven't been the best of friends. But we fought together and shed blood together, even if sometimes not for the same goals. Would you do something for me, instead of Kallian, this time?"
Zevran tilted his head.
"It seems you have grown much more comfortable with asking people favors since you're king, Chantry boy. It depends. Does it help?"
"Yes. I think it does. I'd have you go to Denerim, keep an eye on my Queen. Maker only knows what she's up to. You think you would do that?"
"I should have joined with Kallian and Leliana."Zevran said reluctantly.
"Yes. But Anora needs watching, you must agree. For Kallian's sake, if not for mine."
"You may have a point there. Still – "
"Listen. I am going to the Circle, with them, as King. Greagoir should tell me where Aeonar is, he is bound to. But I'm not the one most fit to spy on my wife."
Zevran laughed.
"Well, if you put it that way… Fine, I'll go. Any final thoughts?"
"No. Just - watch your back."
"Sure. I'll be on my way. Look Dagna up, while you're at the Circle, pass a message for the girls. Ah, and send her my love, will you?"
"Wait – to Dagna?!" Alistair blurted, but he he was talking to thin air. The assassin was gone.
Kallian didn't know where she was going.
That much was obvious enough, if one was to judge by the hint of hesitation in her steps and the focused silence that she kept for the better part of the day's journey.
They had left the main road a day before. They'd heard voices and horses in the distance, the kind that could announce a large party. Perhaps, even an official one. Kallian had deemed it safer to retreat in the woods and stop for the day. Fortunately, they had escaped unnoticed, but the narrow, steep trail that they were currently following didn't make Kallian happy at all. She could almost taste it, the gloom that whirled around her. They had even to dismount and walk by their horses, and that was since early in the morning. The air was humid and hot, but no sun rays reached down to warm their skin through the canopy. Until they reached the top.
It was dark at first, but then the air started to clear, revealing, slowly at first, but then gaining detail, a meadow with soft grass, bordered at one end by a handful of steep cliffs, sharp as so many dragon teeth, with their tips dipped in the milky substance of the fog that curled lazily around them, as if coquettishly debating whether to linger or to rise. A stream sprung from the rocks and clattered merrily its way down, and perhaps half a dozen blooms of Andraste's grace – the flower that she'd learnt to know not only by its scent, but by its form, here in Ferelden – grew on its sides. A couple of does were grazing undisturbed, even as Con darted forth and out of sight, loosing himself among them with a happy bark.
"Look!" she said, but when she turned there was nobody to speak to. Odd. She could swear Kallian had been at her side only a heartbeat ago.
She reached out and touched one of the does. Its fur was short and soft and warm, and it only raised its head for a second before returning to its grazing. Does were more particular to the vast plains of Orlais than to Ferelden, but then, they were down south and the nature was more endearing here.
"Where did Con go?" she asked the thin air, before remembering that she was alone. Ah well, she was bound to forget things. There was no person more lightheaded on the face of Thedas, Marjorlaine had said so herself, once.
She heard a voice. But that voice couldn't be Kallian's could it? It sounded cruel and unyielding, hoarse in her fine ear as it whispered –
"You can't see, Leliana. This is the Fade."
What nonsense could that be… But of course she could. She'd just seen the white-haired does – she'd touched them.
Leliana went forth.