A short and simple, talky chapter. Anyone else noticed that Morgana keeps using the excuse of "gathering firewood" when she wants to be left alone?
Firewood
Alistair
Thwack. Thwock.
He frowns at the sound.
Thwack.
Eventually, he has to find the source, because it's driving him mad; he gets up, walking cautiously towards it.
Thwack.
Morgana is standing in a clearing in the woods, attacking some fallen branches with an axe they found in Redcliffe.
An axe?
He can't help himself; curiosity overcomes caution, and, leaning against a tree-trunk, he watches her technique. She is still gripping it a little tightly, still nervous and slower than him, but he can see that she's getting better - her hits don't miss as they used to, and there is more ease in her movements than there was. She has much to learn, but the lessons have paid off, and, in that moment, he's never been prouder.
He remembers Leliana's words: "She will find you, when she is ready." Or not. The Maker works in mysterious ways, it seems.
He stays there a couple of more minutes before he has to say something ridiculous, because, well... he's him. "It's probably a bad idea to surprise a woman with an axe, right?"
Thwock.
"You didn't surprise me," she says quietly, briefly tapping a finger to her head but not turning round. "Taint, remember?"
The first words she's spoken to him in three days, and his heart lifts. "Oh." He walks towards her. "What are you doing?"
"Gathering firewood."
Thwack. He winces at the sound.
She wipes her brow, finally turning round, and gives him a small, sad, half-smile - still a smile, however, and he wonders what's changed - before sitting down on a log. He'd thought he heard singing - her singing - last night, but he's also pretty sure it was his imagination. She takes off the armour until she is sitting in a simple tunic - still with metal boots on, though. The sight is almost comical. She sighs. "Alistair... do you want the throne?"
He looks at her in horror. "Maker, no! If I had to..." He trails off, joining her on the log. "Do you think Eamon's right? That I should?"
She looks away. "I honestly don't know. I don't believe your blood should define you, but, in the end, I'm not sure you'll get the choice." She swallows. "And I hate seeing that."
"I... what?"
Now her eyes are back to him. "I was raised in the Tower, Alistair. I've had old men telling me who I should be all my life. You, in the Chantry. You know how it feels."
He releases a breath in a weak attempt at a laugh, knowing that she isn't joking. "Old men. Yes, I suppose you're right." He looks to the axe she has set down. "You've improved, you know. With an axe, you're..." He searches for the right word. "... Frightening," he manages.
She laughs then, a true laugh, the first he's heard from her in what seems like such a long time, and the sound makes him smile. "Thank you. I think. Are you up to teaching?"
He looks at her, cocks his head to one side. "I suppose so. And about the anti-smite training..."
She raises her eyebrows."You were serious about that? I thought you weren't meant to give away Chantry secrets."
She remembers him saying that? "That was before I threw a holy smite at you..." He makes a dismissive hand gesture. "...O heathen apostate."
Too soon? For a moment, he's convinced himself she's about to hit him, but then she slaps a palm to her face instead, trying not to smile. "Oh, Alistair."
Now they're here, on their own terms, and not running away or waving a sword at something, he says, quietly, "I'm sorry. But it was necessary."
She swallows. "I know. I'm still not sure I agree, but... some part of me knows."
"Are you... all right?"
She spots that he's asking about Jowan, and her eyes slide to the floor. "Thank you. And... no." Now she looks at him, really looks at him, and smiles. "But I will be."
They walk back to camp together, her boots clanking and him carrying all the firewood (of course). He's really starting to wonder whether he should stop with this whole chivalry thing.