"I pray you tell her to desist," Morrigan says to Ailis, a very little bit of pleading infused into her voice.
They have reached Denerim, and Leliana proceeded to drag everyone around the market, shopping for necessities and what Leliana deemed necessities.
"Look at this absolutely lovely cloth!" Leliana exults, holding a shining green fabric to her skin. "I have always liked green. I think they call this sage green, do they not? Oh, it is so lovely!"
"Someone remind her she is a warrior," Alistair murmurs under his breath.
"Morrigan, Morrigan, come see!" Leliana calls, then darts to drag the witch to a display. "This—this is the exact fabric I wish to dress you in! What a ravishing color. Of course it will need to be low cut, we do not want to obscure your features…"
"Will you stop staring at my breasts so, 'tis most disturbing!"
Ailis, on the other hand, is with Jowan, and they are more sedately choosing sturdy shirts and pants for everyone else.
Jowan has nothing at all but the torn robes on his back and the staff he holds as a cane. According to him, Isolde set his things afire trying to undo whatever spell he had allegedly cast on Redcliffe.
"Alistair," Ailis calls. He turns. "Do you think Jowan would do better in leather or splint?"
He mulls this over, looking at the mage's skinny form.
"He can't keep wearing robes, it will give him away," he agrees. "Leather is lighter, and he's not supposed to be in the thick of battle anyway. Leather armor."
She throws him a smile, even as Jowan looks more and more harried by the rapidly growing amount of items.
"My lady—Ailis—where did you get all the money to buy these things?"
Ailis laughs a trifle bitterly.
"Killed some bandits, was gifted by Teagan, plundered my home's treasury—does it matter? We will be well-supplied."
"It's a pity we can't dress him in Warden mage robes," Alistair says. "That was good tailoring."
Leliana is relentlessly cheerful as they shop in Denerim, and yes, Morrigan was convinced into a dark red gown, "At least for a change from your Wilds clothing!" Leliana says. Alistair gets a new whetstone for Oathkeeper, Jowan gets a whole new wardrobe, and Ailis is very, very quiet through it all.
She keeps her silence up until it is time to find an inn to spend the night in. Then she dumps her purchases on the bed and leaves the inn.
"What's wrong?" Alistair asks the air.
Leliana has a dawning look of understanding on her face.
"Follow her," she tells him quietly. "I will take care of things here."
"Pester me endlessly, no doubt," Morrigan mutters. She sounds as if she rather looks forward to it.
Using his Warden senses, he follows Ailis to the wealthiest parts of Denerim, understanding dawning upon him as it did Leliana. He finds her in front of a beautiful white estate, wrought iron gates twisting into laurel leaves, the doors closed and everything empty and still.
"I haven't been here in years," Ailis says softly, not even turning. She knows he is there, the way he knew where she was. "But I still remember. This estate was built to be beautiful."
She took a deep breath.
"Sunlight would pour into the hallways through walls of windows—you cannot see the walls of windows, they are on the other side, but they are there. And do you see the sliding glass doors on the terraces? If you wished, you could step out to just look at the hustle and bustle of the city. I used to, in the early mornings before sword training.
"Inside," her voice takes on a wistful quality, "Inside, everything is blue and green. The last time we were here the curtains were blue. The carpets were green, Highever green, and the paintings…
"There were so many paintings. Landscapes, ancestors. My favorite was Elethea Cousland. Do you know her?"
"No," Alistair murmurs.
"You should. She was the Teyrna Who Knelt. To King Calenhad, though he wasn't king then." In one motion, she sits on the ground, still facing the estate, still not looking at Alistair. "In the portrait, Elethea's hair was a streak of brown against the sky, and she was angry: her brow furrowed, her eyes burning blue. In her hands she held two wickedly sharp daggers, and whoever painted this picture had streaked white paint across the canvas to make the daggers glint. I spent so many hours staring at the painting and imagining myself to be Elethea. I wanted to be glorious. I wanted to fight. I wanted to win a war."
She turns to Alistair, and her eyes are shining in the moonlight.
"I apologize you had to come after me," she said. "It did not…sit well with me that my companions and I needed to go to an inn to stay in Denerim, when my family has a perfectly good estate right here. I suppose I was…miserable about it."
"It's all right," Alistair says, throat thick. "It's all right."
He settles next to her on the ground, and they watch the moon rise into the sky, over a white estate mournful for its rightful mistress.
xxx
When they return, Jowan is entering the room, holding small pots in his hands.
"What are those?" Alistair queries.
Instead of answering, he gestures them inside, and they all settle around the fireplace: Morrigan, Leliana, Alistair, Ailis, and Calenhad. Morrigan is in wolf form, and Calenhad sniffs at her curiously before cuddling up next to her.
Jowan stands in front of them, wringing his hands.
"I have a request to make," he says.
"All right…?" Leliana says.
"Could you…could you tattoo me?"
"Pardon?"
"Could you tattoo me?" Jowan repeats, before realizing that doesn't make anything clearer. He sighs and sits down on the floor, near everyone else. "This is rather a long story…I hope you don't mind."
"I love stories!" Leliana enthuses. Morrigan rolls her eyes, and Ailis smiles faintly. "Tell us, Jowan."
Jowan doesn't look at them, rather stares into the fireplace, at the dancing sparks and the crackling logs.
"It was Theron Mahariel who started it," he begins. "Theron was Dalish—is Dalish—he was taken by templars when he was young, but old enough to understand Dalish customs. Before he was taken to the Circle he was from Clan Sabrae, he said."
Jowan's hands twist around each other.
"Theron said that when Dalish elves come of age, they tattoo their faces with vallaslin. Blood writing. And he wanted to do the same once he passed the Harrowing.
"Well, Theron took the Harrowing, and he survived, and the next day he, Alindra Amell, and I gathered 'round after dinner to tattoo his face." A sad smile crosses his lips. "Of course we couldn't use actual blood, because then the Templars would say we were practicing blood magic. But we found some inks…We didn't know what real vallaslin looked like, so we just went with flowers and vines, because that seemed elven enough." Jowan laughs a little.
"And then it was Alindra's turn. Alindra was from Kirkwall, and all she could remember of her family was that they had a red crest that kind of looked like a bird. So she had a red bird tattooed on her face.
"It was supposed to be my turn next, but…they never Harrowed me.
"But now I'm a Warden," Jowan laughs, a little sadly. "And the Joining is kind of like a Harrowing too. So I figured, why not, right?
"So…will you?"
"Of course we will," Leliana burst out, tears in her eyes. Beside her, Ailis nodded. "Of course we will, Jowan."
"I'll help," Alistair volunteered. His throat was tight. Jowan hadn't outright said it, but the stories of the Circle mages, stories of being torn from their families…Jowan must have had a similar experience. And the fact that Jowan wanted to keep up a tradition started by three friends in a lonely tower must mean Jowan missed his friends, and wanted to honor them somehow.
Wanting to honor those gone from their lives, as well as mark a rite of passage…Alistair could understand that.
"I find it most ridiculous that you should mark yourself so obviously when Wardens and you are fugitives," Morrigan observes dryly, transforming back into humanity. "Nevertheless, I offer my small skill at healing, as well."
Ailis looks at her, eyebrow raised teasingly, while Leliana laughs outright.
"Morrigan, are you going soft on us?"
"Don't be absurd!" the witch snaps.
Leliana's hand is deemed most artistic, so it is she who dips brushes into the pots of ink Jowan brought and carefully brushes a design upon Jowan's temple and cheek. The Grey Warden griffon gradually takes shape upon Jowan's face.
Alistair contemplates the griffon thoughtfully, as Leliana applies the blue ink.
"I think I'd kind of like one too, Jowan, if you don't mind," he says. Everyone looks at him. "I'd like to—remember everyone."
"Oh, spare us the navel-gazing," Morrigan mocks.
"But of course," Leliana says. "But we may not have enough ink for the two of you."
"Three," Ailis says. "I would like one, as well."
"I do hope we have lyrium potions on hand," Morrigan snarks. "Else Jowan will have to learn some healing spells quickly."
"What, you can't do it yourself, O great witch of the wilds?" Alistair ripostes.
"As if you could," Morrigan snipes back.
He holds his hands up. "Oh, I'm no mage," he says. "But a witch of the wilds, well, she should be powerful enough to heal some tattoos, right?"
"I shan't be healing yours," Morrigan huffs.
Alistair grins.
Jowan's tattoo curves around his right eye, the griffon's outstretched wings almost cradling the grey eye. Grey eye, heh. There was a joke there, but Alistair didn't feel like thinking of one. The griffon's body is grey, the tips of its wings, its beak, and crest blue.
Ailis and Alistair, as two warriors with steady hands, take charge of slowly tapping in the ink with needles. Jowan winces a lot, which makes the process difficult, until Morrigan huffs and cast a numbing spell.
As they work, Alistair couldn't help but think of what tattoo Ailis would want to get, and where. (He blushes at some of the more risqué thoughts.) It would be the Cousland or Highever banner, for certain. Ailis wore her nobility on her sleeve, or around her neck like a weight. Or like a tattoo. Teyrna Ailis Cousland, who just happens to be a Grey Warden.
Alistair understands, sort of, because he is the other way around. He puts everything into being a Warden so he can forget he is the son of…well, let's not think about that.
All the same, he wonders uncomfortably if he oughtn't honor his father and brother in some way in his tattoo. He was a Warden, but he was also a, well…
Maybe.
The pots of ink were deemed insufficient for another tattooing that night, so they all go to bed, healing spells cast and good nights said. Tomorrow, they would tattoo Ailis and Alistair, they say.
But Alistair lies awake all night, wondering about his father and brother, and about Duncan, and about Ailis, and about Ailis's family…
He falls into a troubled sleep.
Author's note: Jowan and his tattoo can be found in my /jowan tag at my tumblr, ladyhighever!
