Chapter 40! Wow. A lot has changed since this fic started...
This is sort of a continuation of "Teacher" and "Rain", but neither are required reading.
Raindrops
Alistair
He has to grin as he watches her move; she darts the occasional glance to him, seeking approval. He nods, smiles, and she returns it. Her movements are still a little clumsy, but she'll be fine once she's got the hang of it.
An old memory resurfaces.
Rough hands on his shoulders, steadying him. The broad man walking in front of him, helm off and the first traces of grey visible in his beard.
He couldn't help shaking; the cries of "bastard" were still ringing in his ears, and he'd never held a sword before. No-one had told him they were so sharp.
Well, they had, but it had never really registered until he felt the weight of the iron, hands still a child's wrapping round the rough leather of the hilt. He looked up to the templar, saw the angry set of his face, and his hands promptly slipped on the sword. It clattered to the ground embarrassingly loudly.
Maker, he was never designed for this. He'd hit the dreaded gangly stage, all legs and arms and tripping over your own knees. Strength and swords? Not for him. Definitely not for him.
Laughs from the other initiates; a gauntlet slapping into the side of his face. Surprisingly lightly, though, and a whisper of, "Show 'em, boy."
He looked one last time at Ser Wilfrud, swallowing, then did his best to pick up the sword, steadying his posture, concentrating on the stance he'd been taught, wincing with the effort, actually succeeding.
Silence from the other initiates, for once, and no words from Wilfrud. Just a nod and a smile.
He is jerked out of his trance by a drop of rain on his face.
Morgana is holding the sword slack at her side, smiling and looking to the sky. He remembers after the tower, how surprised she'd seemed at the rain, how she'd kept looking up at the sky as they walked (and miraculously not tripped over anything), Leliana muttering what he was pretty sure were Orlesian curses and battling her hair.
Forgetting how soaked he is himself, he tries not to stare. It's freezing and wet, and she's smiling, simple joy on her face. His heart sinks as he realises why rain must be new to her - as she put it so succinctly at Ostagar, "the whole locked in a tower for years thing".
He gently walks over to her, taking the sword from her and sheathing it. She mutters her thanks, still clearly distracted.
"The... rain?" He motions toward her tent.
She shakes her head, still slightly dazed, then looks around, only just seeming to realise that everyone else has taken shelter in their own tents. "I'll be here for a while," she says.
He nods, and she jumps as he throws his only cloak over her shoulders. "Here." There's little else to say, and little else to do other than retire to his own tent and hope she doesn't get soaked.
"Thank you," she calls after him, and then she is lost once again.
When he sticks his head out of his tent a few minutes later, she is still there, holding the cloak tightly to her, face turned to the sky in bliss.
He shakes his head in disbelief, unsure whether to sigh in exasperation or smile - she is the oddest woman he's ever come across.