It's often mentioned in fanfic that Alistair is an early riser, and I just had to write this because I loved this imagery and the scene that popped into my head so much. After all, one of the main reasons I'm writing this is to explore the little in-between moments, when the fighting and the "Grey Warden-ing" stops, and we see a glimpse of the characters' humanity (OK, there's Sten and Zevran, but you know what I mean...). My favourite example of that is camp, where they have time to let their guard down and just... be.

So: a glimpse of morning routine. Wondering whether to do it for other characters now and again, but I'm not sure yet.

{Matutinus = Of / belonging to the morning. I know almost nothing of Latin, but the word seemed too appropriate to pass up on. Forgive me if I'm murdering the language.}

Matutinus

Alistair

He wakes up at almost exactly the same time every morning, to the minute.

Years of Chantry training refuse to allow him to do otherwise - he half expects to hear a bell and a call to prayer. The camp, however, is silent, his companions still asleep on their bedrolls.

Groaning, he slowly uncurls from his sleeping state and ducks out of his tent bleary-eyed and barefooted, clothed in only the pair of breeches he slept in. There is still residual blue from the dawn.

He is not in the Chantry. Prayer can be skipped.

To business. He runs through each of the stretches, feeling muscles come undone and joints pop in a surprisingly satisfying way. He clears his mind, letting his muscle memory take over, more than a decade of rituals and routines guiding him without conscious thought through the motions - it is a comfortable feeling, just... letting go. Relaxing, he supposes.

All the while, his breathing is steady - in. Out. Move. In. Out.

Opening his eyes, snapping back to normality and slipping on the worn leather gauntlets he has had since he was sixteen, he begins to practise his sword work - essential, if he wants to teach it to Morgana. He uses the same principles he has been taught since he was a child - the breathing, the pace, the motion.

Easy as breathing, he used to say to his fellow initiates, and they'd groan at the terrible joke. The memory brings a smile to his face. He goes through the names of the manoeuvres in his head, making sure his grip is correct.

He looks up. The blue is washing out of the sky. Sheathing his sword and laying it next to his tent, he finds a likely-looking tree for the mental exercise, sits under it, and begins the process of clearing all conscious thought again, this time unmoving.

He comes back to himself, hearing the sound of voices a couple of feet away. The meditation must have taken longer than he'd thought. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, mildly curious as to what the conversation is about.

One is Orlesian-accented. "What is he doing? Not that I do not appreciate the view, but it looks... most curious."

He hears the clank of iron against iron - two pots? - and the quieter voice of Morgana, saying more words than he's ever heard from her to the red-haired sister. He thought she was meant to be Chantry-phobic? "There. Soup. He's meditating. The templars do it in the Tower." The bitterness has crept into her voice again. "Helps build mental fortitude." There is a kind of a grudging respect there now. "Actually, it's not a bad habit to get into. I... tried it a few times. Difficult, but it worked. Takes incredible discipline, and I was impatient. You didn't see them do it in the Chantry?" Pushing back his hurt that she's only said about twenty words to him since they've met and is so quick to open up to another stranger, a thought occurs to him - she's meditated? This mage is... weird, to put it mildly.

He opens his eyes to blinding daylight and finds a small plate of a soup, stew... thing with a wild mushroom sticking out of it in front of him. It has been carried carefully to where he was sitting, not a drop spilled, as if someone didn't want to interrupt him.

He looks up to see the two women sitting by the remains of the main campfire (not the witch's), and remembers that it was Morgana's turn to dish out breakfast this morning. She made and brought over the stew?

The redhead gives him a bright smile, and remembering her earlier comment, he dives past her into his tent to retrieve a shirt, embarrassed, then, taking the soup - trying not to spill most of it - he sits with them. He looks to Morgana, who he is now certain was responsible for the delivery of his breakfast, and offers her a small smile of thanks.

She nods her head slightly, returning to her stew.