Sorry for the delay for this chapter! Christmas happened and I got busy. But I'm glad to finally get this chapter up - here we see Bron and Alistair begin their journey to Haven in earnest.
Alistair's head hurts, a dull ache that throbs from the back of his skull all the way around to his temples. His throat is dry, his tongue seemingly a little too large for his mouth, and there's a tight prickle of sensation when he blinks, as if he's been asleep for a hundred years and his eyes aren't quite sure they're ready to be awake yet. He is immensely glad that the sky is overcast; he probably couldn't handle a startling morning sun given his current condition.
Oh Maker, that beer must have been shitter than he'd thought; he hadn't even had that much!
When Bron emerges from the tavern's stables with the horses in tow, she's humming softly to herself, something light and nimble and wholly inappropriate for such a profanely early hour.
Well someone's fucking perky this morning.
She stops as soon as she notices him watching, looking slightly abashed at having been caught indulging in this little moment of melodic whimsy. But she quickly schools her features into placid neutrality and there's a contented smile on her lips as she hands over the reins to his horse.
Beside him, his dependable steed gives a disgruntled snort. "You're right, Bill," he murmurs conspiratorially into the horse's ear when he's confident that Bron has walked too far to overhear him, "you can't trust a morning person. It's best we keep an eye on her."
Bill gives him a sympathetic whinny and nudges him in what Alistair likes to think of as friendly concern.
Bron had awoken him early, the sky yet dark and the tavern quiet save for the few staff preparing for the morning meal. Breezing airily into his room, she had outlined her preferred route back to Haven while Alistair was still sprawled awkwardly in his bed. He'd tried to sound as coherent and competent as possible, given the early hour and the insistent pounding in his head, but had mostly just agreed to her plan in the hope that his acquiescence would make her leave quicker. It had not been a particularly dignified encounter but then Alistair had been raised by dogs; what did he know of decorum?
At least she'd brought a tray with some food and piping-hot tea. A depraved morning person she may be, but apparently not a cruel one.
Clambering onto Bill with a little less grace than he would have preferred, Alistair waits until Bron is herself mounted and then gestures at the path that leads from the tavern toward the main road. He knows the way to Haven, of course; his last visit there had been pretty memorable (it's hard to forget cultists and a close encounter with a high dragon). But this is Bron's show and he's willing to let her take the lead.
From the tavern, the pair travel west, following the winding coastal paths typical to Highever. By the end of the day they reach Harper's Ford and they stay overnight in a small tavern at the outskirts of the village before travelling southwards, following the road that leads them toward the old fortress of West Hill.
Their intention is to join the North Road just south of West Hill and then continue to the Imperial Highway at the northernmost point of Lake Calenhad. Then they would hug the western shore of the lake as they travel south toward Haven. Things would be a lot easier once they reached the Imperial Highway. Here, closer to the coast, the land is rough and the routes difficult to navigate.
Alistair thinks they're making good time, despite the hard terrain, and as long as they continue to avoid trouble, he expects they'll be in Haven within a few days. It's still early Kingsway, and though the sun has lost a bit of its luster, the weather is still warm and pleasant. The Frostbacks should still be reasonably easy to traverse (well… about as easy as the Frostbacks ever are).
As a travelling companion, Bron is… quiet. At first he appreciates her reticence. She never complains, never questions or pries, just calmly goes about her business. He'd expected her to be curious, to ask probing questions about his time with the wardens, or with the Hero of Fereldan during the blight, but she shows no interest in his past, merely contentment that he has agreed to come with her.
There is some conversation, of course, perfunctory discussions on when to rest the horses and where to stop for the night. But other than that, they are mainly silent.
Which is exactly how Alistair likes it.
Well… exactly how he sometimes likes it.
Sometimes, he supposes, it is rather nice to have someone to talk to.
Even in his exile, despite a preference for travelling alone, Alistair had found himself working with a number of mercenary troupes from time-to-time. He'd met his fair share of criminals and cutthroats, of course, and in those cases he'd been content to take his share of the payment and leave. But he'd met a lot of decent people too, refugees from the blight, the unlucky or the lost, all just trying to make do with what they had and eke out as good an existence as they could manage. It had been nice to listen to their stories, to try and guess which of the more outlandish tales were fabrications, and since sell-swords were happy to forego the usual niceties of conversation, he'd managed to avoid awkward questions about his past or identity. There had been something comfortingly (achingly) familiar about working with other people.
It's a relief to him that Bron isn't intrusive but after a while, well, the silence does get a little… grating. Without conversation, there's nothing to distract him from the dull hum of the Calling, the endless whispering melody that skips and skims in broken, repeating fragments in his head.
They've almost reached The North Road near West Hill when Alistair finally snaps, turning to face Bron as she rides beside him and commenting, "are you always this quiet or do you just not like me?"
She starts a little at his sudden question, turning to look at him with bemusement.
"I don't not like you," she answers (not a particularly ringing endorsement, Alistair notes), "I just… what's wrong with companionable silence?"
He gives a dry, humourless chuckle. "See, that's just it, 'companionable' suggests a certain base level of friendship. What we have here is just silence – there's nothing companionable about it."
"All right – well," she shrugs, not entirely sure where he's going with this line of conversation, "what do you want to do about it?"
"We could, perhaps, talk?"
Her eyebrows arch as if he's said something outrageous. "We've been talking."
He frowns. "Hardly! Banal discussions on the most efficient route to Haven do not count."
"Fine," she says, voice heavy with weary resignation, and when he sees her shake her head he fears that she's a lost cause, that she intends on being professional and curt all the way to Haven. But then her lips curl into a wry smile and there's a hint of teasing in her tone when she asks, "do you… come here often?"
He lets out a snort of laughter, brief but hearty.
She's making fun of him, of course, her smile only broadening as he laughs, but it's a start and he's glad that she's willing to play along. The long journey ahead will go a lot quicker if they can achieve something approaching friendliness.
"To this particular track of forest?" he muses, matching her irreverent tone, "no… I must confess this is a first for me."
"Fascinating. And how are you finding it so far?"
"A real treat, actually. I particularly admire the… ugh… general leafiness."
Now it's her turn to laugh, loud and clear, the sound echoing down the narrow forest path and sending a few birds skittering into the air.
"See! We're practically best friends already!" he exclaims joyfully, "next thing you know we're going to be sitting around the campfire, talking about boys and braiding each others' hair."
She pauses a moment and hums thoughtfully. "I think I might struggle to braid your hair."
"That's all right – I'll do the hair-braiding, you can do the gossiping," he fixes her with a knowing stare, "since you're clearly the talkative one."
She laughs again, and he joins her, revelling in this small moment of unexpected camaraderie. This is… pleasant, Alistair thinks, travelling once more with a companion. Sure she's a little taciturn, a little brusque, but there is real potential here. He decides that she has a good laugh at least, unguarded and genuine.
"So you're from Fereldan then, originally," he says in an attempt to start a genuine conversation, "but I'm guessing you don't live here anymore."
"And how do you suppose that?"
"You're accent. It's… a little peculiar."
She purses her lips as if about to object but then smiles instead. "Yes, I suppose it is. I was born and raised in Highever but I've been travelling around Thedas since shortly after the blight. Mostly I've been in Orlais."
"So this is a homecoming for you."
She shrugs, perhaps in an attempt to appear indifferent, but there's too much tension in her face for the gesture to seem genuinely nonchalant. "I'm not sure Fereldan is really home anymore."
It's an innocuous enough statement but he finds the words needle more than he expects. "I know how that feels," he says, a little quieter than intended.
They lapse into silence again, though Alistair is relieved to find that it's not as uncomfortable as before.
After a while he notices that Bron is watching him, brows knit in thought as she attempts to subtly appraise him from the corners of her eyes. Finally, as if she has only just summoned the courage, she asks, "so why did you leave Fereldan?"
He feels his spine stiffen, an involuntary reaction to a question he'd hoped she wouldn't ask. "Didn't Leliana tell you?" he asks in a poor attempt at evasion.
"She told me that Queen Anora exiled you," she replies.
"Well then… there you go."
"But she didn't tell me why."
"I don't want to talk about that."
Her eyes narrow in irritation for the briefest moment and Alistair is certain that she's going to carry on pushing until she gets the answers she wants. But she surprises him when instead she returns her attention to the road ahead and says simply, "fair enough – I don't need to know."
Huh.
Just like that. He asks her to stop and… she does. It's such a simple thing, for her to respect his desire for some privacy, but he's amazed at how pleased it makes him feel. Perhaps this journey to Haven won't be so bad after all, perhaps even pleasant.
His contentment is unfortunately short-lived and it is with growing unease that he notices a carriage blocking the road a little further ahead. He's seen this before; it looks eerily like an ambush.
By his side, he can see Bron straighten in her saddle, her face turning stony as she too sees the danger in their situation. It is a good sign; she's clearly well-travelled enough to have developed some instincts for troubling set-ups.
When they're nearer the carriage, several figures step forward. Three well-armed men stand in the middle of the road, two more stay nearer the tree line, possibly archers maintaining their distance. It's not great odds, but then Alistair's faced far worse.
He wishes he knew more about Bron's fighting ability. Though she presents herself as a mere messenger, Alistair strongly suspects that she's more deadly than she seems. Leliana would not have sent her on an important mission alone had she not been able to defend herself.
A broad, red-faced man separates himself from the rest of the group, smiling wickedly as he looks up at the pair of them.
"Well isn't this a lovely pair," he sneers, "going somewhere nice?"
His comrades laugh. Alistair is not amused.
"Unfortunately there's a toll in place for this stretch of road," he continues with false sincerity, "but if you just hand over 30 gold each, we'll let you go on your way."
"What?" Alistair sputters, outraged by the audacity of such a high sum, "there's no toll here. We're not giving you anything."
"That's too bad – it would be a shame if your lady-friend here had to see something unpleasant."
Bron's frown deepens, eyes fierce and sharp. "Either you fuck off," she spits between clenched teeth, "or this lady-friend is going to cut off your knee-caps and use them to make percussion instruments."
Alistair can't help the snort that escapes him; he had not expected her to be the type that favoured colourful taunts. The bandits, however, seem less enamoured by her inventive choice of words and they glower peevishly as they unsheathe their weapons.
Fine – if battle is what these men want, Alistair is not going to disappoint them.
Alistair turns to signal at Bron but finds her already hurriedly dismounting her horse. He quickly follows, his hand immediately reaching for the long-sword at his back. When his feet are firmly planted on the ground, he squares his shoulders and pivots his sword in his hand, testing its weight and balance in preparation for the imminent attack. At his side, Bron has pulled a long, elegant rapier from her horse's pack, and now stands alert on the balls of her feet.
Ah, a duelist then, this will be interesting.
The red-faced man moves first, lurching toward Bron with a spitting snarl. But before he can reach her, Alistair dashes forward to intercept, jabbing his elbow into the snivelling man's nose then, when he's doubled forward in pain, smashing the pommel of his sword into the base of the man's skull with a satisfying crack. As the first bandit falls, Alistair twists away and turns to engage the others. Bron ducks under his sword arm as he turns, sprinting toward the archers at the edge of the battlefield while dodging their spray of arrows.
Another bandit charges toward Alistair, dual daggers scything the air in tight circles in front of him. Timing his attack carefully, Alistair thrusts his sword upwards, catching both daggers mid-slice before pushing with all his might until the bandit is sent staggering back. A shrill shriek is wrenched from the bandit's throat when Alistair delivers a sharp, brutal kick to the knee but the sound is cut short when Alistair brings his blade across the man's neck, slicing in one swift, deft movement.
Suddenly he hears a dull thuck and when he looks down, there's an arrow protruding jauntily from his leather cuirass. He's relieved to see that the arrow hasn't penetrated down to the skin but the hit distracts him long enough for one of the remaining bandits to backhand him viciously. He's sent sprawling to the ground, his sword skittering from his grasp with the force of his fall. Winded and wheezing, eyes swimming and bones thrumming from the impact, Alistair only just manages to roll out of the way to avoid a downward thrust from the bandit's sword. It occurs to him too late that he's just rolled away from where his weapon has fallen and as he stares up at the terrible grin of the bandit looming over him, he realises that he is unarmed and powerless.
He holds the bandit's stare, unflinching, uncowed, and waits for the ending blow.
Instead, the slender tip of a blade appears from the bandit's throat and the unfortunate man falls to his knees with a wet, burbling groan. Behind him stands Bron, her rapier still embedded in the back of the bandit's neck. She places her foot on the bandit's shoulder and gives him a firm kick to remove him from the end of her rapier, looking unnervingly pleased with her handiwork as his aimless corpse slumps to the ground.
Alistair hurries to pull himself to his feet so that he can face the remaining bandits but instead he is met with only still silence. The forest road has fallen quiet and calm once more, though now adorned with several bodies and spattered liberally with wide arcs of crimson.
When he turns to Bron, she's carefully picking her way between the bodies, eyes scanning the blood-soaked earth in search of anything that might prove useful.
"You disposed of the archers?" he asks, sounding more surprised than he'd really intended.
"Yes," she replies and Alistair suspects from the downward curl of her lips that she's a little offended by his question.
"And then you saved my life?"
"Yes," she repeats, although now her frown is replaced with a smug little smile.
He smiles in return, she probably deserves to be a little smug, and nods appreciatively. "Well then - thank you."
"You're welcome," she says as she bends to rifle through one of the bandit's pockets, "and I'm sorry you got shot."
"Bah!" He dismisses her apology with a wave, "just a glancing blow."
Having helped herself to a number of coin purses and small, valuable-looking tokens, Bron finally comes across Alistair's wayward long-sword at the edge of the battlefield. She lifts it up carefully and gives it a thorough wipe with the torn edge of a bandit's cloak before carrying it back to its rightful owner.
"You probably want to keep hold of this," she drawls, smirking wickedly as she hands the weapon back to him.
"Yes, fine," he says, chuckling good-naturedly. After all she had saved his life, he could allow her to poke some fun at his expense. "Go ahead – have your fun."
"Clearly you're losing your touch," she teases, smile wide and toothy, "what have you been up to since the blight? Going to spa days? Indulging in Orlesian pastries all day?"
Her words strike something unexpectedly raw inside him. He knows that she's joking, knows that her words are just harmless teasing, but he feels something prickle under his skin nonetheless.
"Yeah… something like that," he says with forced levity, and he turns to retrieve their horses before she can notice how she's riled him.
What has he been doing since the blight?
Mostly he's been angry, angry at Anora for exiling him, angry at Elissa for betraying him, angry at himself for failing the wardens, the one family he has ever truly known. He's wasted so much time on anger, wasted so much time doing petty tasks for petty men; there is, after all, little dignity in the life of a mercenary. Everything from the last ten years just seems so pointless.
He gives his head a firm shake when he takes hold of Bill's reins, tries to push the maudlin thoughts from his head. Maybe once he's reached Haven, once he's helped the Inquisition find the lost wardens, maybe then he'll be able to salvage something good, something worthwhile, from these wasted years.