Do not let a flattering woman coax and wheedle you and deceive you; she is after your barn.
Hesiod
Elder Miriam had set up a sort of makeshift office across from the tavern on the outskirts of town. "Are you in need of a place to stay?" she demanded as they approached.
"Well, that was easy," Elan muttered uncomfortably. Nothing lately had been easy...she couldn't help feeling a bit...well, threatened by the sudden change, even though a part of her already knew she ought to just relax and appreciate such a rare occurrence while she could.
"Well, speak up," Miriam rapped impatiently. "I think there's space in Allison's barn."
"Yes, we'll probably need shelter for..." the sister trailed off, looking to the rest of the group for direction.
"We thought we'd stay a couple of days," Elan told her. "But if space is dear, we could always clear and make camp tomorrow after we purchase supplies."
"A couple of days," the sister said brightly, as if the Elder hadn't just heard Elan say the same thing.
The Elder nodded. "A couple of days should be fine. Mind you don't leave a mess or burn down the barn."
"Thank you for your assistance, Elder," the sister said sweetly. Part of Elan admired her technique and part of her wanted to grit her teeth.
"Is there any way we can help you in return?" Elan interjected, feeling almost impelled to prove that she, too, could be considerate...in spite of all evidence to the contrary, and feeling more than a little resentful of the sister—and herself—for making her want to appear sweet, when she really wasn't particularly, and had no real desire to be. Sweetness only attracted flies after all.
The Elder eyed Elan with a similar skepticism, taking in her ragged hair, the blood on her armor, the dull glint of the daggers crossed against her back. "Don't have much need for blades," she said laconically.
"Oh, really?" Elan snapped. "Funny. I thought your little village was about to be overrun by darkspawn."
The sister kicked her—actually kicked her—as if warning her to be silent. Elan crossed her arms over her chest and fumed, fully annoyed to have a generous gesture she hadn't even wanted to make thrown back in her face, and even more fully annoyed to realize that most people had no idea—no idea at all—of just how literally a blade's edge was often all that stood between life and certain death. Most frustrating of all was how recently she'd been one of those people, in spite of all her training...and how desperately she wished she still could be.
"Please," the sister said in such mellow and beseeching tones that Elan's irritation and resentment began to melt, "My...friend...was simply asking if there was any small item or service you need that we might provide as a token of our...appreciation."
"Don't suppose you know anything about herbs?"
"I...don't," the sister admitted, glancing around at the group.
"Only if you're referring to poisons," Elan said, only the smallest sliver of her wicked grin escaping. "But..."
"I have some knowledge of healing herbs," Morrigan said, her frigid glare making it quite clear Elan owed her a great deal for the admission, even if she had been a bit tickled to see the acknowledgment of her own earlier crack about poisons glinting in Elan's eyes as they met hers.
"Then you might be able to do a lot of good," the Elder said. Morrigan scoffed eloquently in reply. Elan stifled the urge to laugh. Alistair looked bored and a bit sleepy. The sister just looked confused. "There are healing herbs on the outskirts of town. If you could gather them and make a few poultices—"
"No need." Morrigan said shortly. The sister looked at her in hot protest, Elan with surprise, Alistair with exasperation. "I am carrying a supply of poultices I've already made," she continued, making her companions' expressions morph in a most amusing way. "Will five be sufficient?"
"Why, yes," the Elder said, sounding less startled than most of the other witnesses to this odd exchange. "You're a good sort, you know?"
Alistair choked. Elan pounded him on the back and grinned. The sister looked at them both as if they'd gone mad. Morrigan sniffed, but otherwise proceeded to ignore them all. Alistair and Elan began to laugh even harder, leaving the sister even more confused as she led them to the barn, which happened to be just next to the bridge they'd crossed multiple times that day.
Elan made a beeline for the hayloft. She'd always had a certain fascination with haylofts. They just looked so...so cozy. And mysterious. A rather irresistible combination. Alistair followed her as far as the ladder, then paused as if he was rethinking the situation and in search of an alternative.
Morrigan had already taken possession of the largest stall. She gave Alistair a warning glare.
The sister had wandered into the only other stall not currently occupied by rather astonished oxen. She looked meditative, far less approachable...and far less familiar than Elan...
Woofus looked at Alistair and gave a short, advisory bark. Then, with a longer, happier bark, he took a running leap and thudded into the hayloft next to Elan, sending bits of hay showering about in a cloud of nose-tickling sweet scent, worming into the drifts of hay on his stomach, looking ecstatic. Elan chuckled and reached out to scratch his belly.
Alistair sighed, shrugged, and climbed the ladder, settling down on the mabari's other side.
Elan pulled off her boots and tossed them into the corner where they hit the wall with a thud. She began tugging at the straps of her armor.
Alistair swallowed hard, remembering the last time she'd taken her armor off, and tried not to wonder whether she had as little—or even less—on underneath this time.
He peered over the edge of the loft in desperate need of distraction, and caught sight of Morrigan. "She looks like she's about to hang a cauldron over a fire and start cackling, doesn't she?" Alistair observed. He could hear scuffling as Elan shifted to pull her padded leather chausses over her legs."She has to be up to no good."
Elan chuckled. Alistair glanced over...cautiously...and was relieved—or was it disappointed?—to see that her tunic was the plain blue woolen one of the mages in camp had given her. It was just as stained and inexpertly mended as his own, but relatively unrevealing, and a simple pair of blue linen braies covered her legs.
Alistair looked away, suddenly embarrassed to have noticed—or cared to notice—what a fellow Grey Warden was wearing, and began tugging at the straps of his own breastplate.
Elan glanced at her carefully-discarded armor with a sigh. "It really ought to be cleaned." She paused, frowned thoughtfully to herself. "Why am I always saying that? And...since I am—always saying that, I mean—why do I never seem to have the proper supplies?"
"Oh, how unfortunate," the sister piped from below, but nearby. "Perhaps you would like to borrow my supplies?"
"Oh, um..."
"Such lovely armor shouldn't be mistreated," the sister pressed.
Memory surged. Her birthday, the day she came of age...Father beaming, mother looking more morose than happy, and trying hard to hide it. The two of the leading her to the family armory, recounting stories of how they'd met during the war for independence. She could see her father produce his well-guarded, well-worn key, open the inner door...
The memory carried the same impact as the original moment, leaving her dazed. It seemed she even remembered nothing for several seconds now, just as it had taken her several stunned minutes then to realize the suit of heavy chain armor that usually hung there, the armor father himself had worn in the war he'd just been recounting...was missing...and in its place...
Elan reached out and stroked the smooth leather planes of her cuirass, remembering the sea-colored glow of it on the stand, not quite blue, not quite green, not quite grey...she traced a finger along the raised knotwork at the neck, just as she had then, still not quite believing...
Then she had not quite believed in its beauty, this armor...and she still didn't...but now...now she didn't believe just how much it had come not only to represent her life and her choices, but to be necessary to maintaining her right to either.
A touch on her shoulder...but the hand was not the same as it had been then, not her father's, but broader, firmer, the touch more tentative, but somehow both comforting and tender...and strangely familiar, as if she had experienced it before...even recently. Alistair. The sweetness and the sorrow threatened to bring tears to her eyes.
She reached up and threaded her fingers through his, silently reassuring him and thanking him at the same time. "I...thank you..." she called out huskily, and wondered if her voice was too low to carry.
"Happy to help," the sister said from the ladder.
Alistair squeezed her shoulder slightly and pulled away to continue removing his armor. Elan had never before realized that at some point in her training, the sound had become so familiar it was comforting. But it had, and it was.
Elan took the cloths,the flask of water, the bottle of special soap, the stoppered bottle of oil, the flask of water, the pot of wax from the sister's extended hands, trying to think of what to say. It wasn't easy, especially given both her reluctance to like anyone who claimed the current situation was the work of the Maker and her feelings of guilt over her inability to accept—or even appreciate—someone who'd been nothing but kind and apparently wanted nothing but to help.
"Sweet dreams," the sister said, then looked rather taken aback, as if she'd said something shocking. "Uh, I mean...sleep well?"
"Erm...okay..." Elan said awkwardly, unable to resist the urge to look over her shoulder toward Alistair, as if asking him to rescue her, but he was absorbed in examining a particularly impressive hole in his left sock.
"See you in the morning?" The sister said, just quizzically enough to make her point.
"Oh," Elan said, feeling rather as if she'd been slapped. This sister was not at all what she appeared, and damned if Elan wasn't tempted to admire her for it. Even if the sister did keep throwing her off-balance. "Yes, of course."