Notes: Alistair and Bron contemplate what they're going to do next and then get into an epic argument.
I thought I'd be able to write this chapter really quickly and easily. It's just a conversation, I said, how hard can it be to write one conversation? It turns out it can be bloody hard.
The first draft of this was really vicious - just uncharacteristically mean for both characters. I'm clearly a really horrible person for putting such nasty words in their mouths.
There's so much talking in this chapter and I'm really sorry - next chapter we get onto some action and I'm quite excited for it.
Alistair does not expect the little old lady to swear quite so… vulgarly.
But then the little old lady probably hadn't expected to be knocked to the ground by a fast-moving, absent-minded warden. So, in retrospect, he supposes he can't begrudge the woman a few, creative insults.
"I'm so, so sorry – so sorry!" Alistair babbles as he hauls the woman up by her armpits, struggling as she fusses in his grip and watching in dismay as her groceries spill from her shopping basket.
Once she's back on her feet he starts scrambling along the street, grasping vainly at assorted fruits and vegetables as they bounce teasingly out of his reach.
"Andraste's arsehole!" she shouts after him as he crawls across the ground, "just leave them! It's just fucking fruit for fuck's sake!"
He manages to grab a pair of oranges before they roll under the wheels of a passing cart and feels a peculiar surge of triumph that is not entirely warranted given his rather modest achievement. He tries to polish them up a bit, knocking off as much mud as possible by rubbing them against his tunic as he trudges dejectedly back up the street. But there's nothing he can really do about the bruises or the dents, and he can't help but grimace at their sorry state.
He smiles sheepishly as he hands the miserable fruit back to the old woman and she gives him a frosty scowl in return. He supposes he deserves that.
"I really am sorry," he says again, head bowed as if the Chantry Mother has just caught him falling asleep again during the Chant.
"Yes, I got that," she replies dryly, seeming less angry than Alistair had expected and more tired.
Looking down to inspect the oranges clasped in her wrinkled hands, she turns them to see the extent of the damage, then drops them unceremoniously into her basket with a mournful sigh.
"If you had been paying attention to where you were walking rather than... daydreaming like some fucking idiot, then this wouldn't have happened!" she mutters, wagging a finger at him scornfully. "Now go bother someone else!"
Alistair gives an awkward nod then scurries away before the woman can berate him some more, although the defiant part of him feels the sudden urge to defend himself because he hadn't been daydreaming. He had, for once, been deep in serious thought.
And serious thought, Alistair had concluded, is thoroughy overrated.
He had been thinking about the fate of the wardens. He had been thinking about The Calling, and how long he had left until he could ignore the summons to the Deep Roads no more. He had been thinking about the disaster at Haven that had seen the demise of the Inquisition.
But mostly, he had been thinking about Bron.
She hadn't really said much since she'd heard the news about Haven a few days prior and the quiet had become… unsettling. If she'd screamed and cried and rallied against the injustice of it all, he would have understood. Instead she'd just made perfunctory comments about the weather and carried out chores around the village.
Of course, Bron had never really been the most talkative of travelling companions, but she'd just finally started to open up to him and Alistair had found himself growing used to her easy conversation and dry humour.
He misses it; he misses her.
But worst of all, he just doesn't know what to do. He wishes he knew what to say to comfort her, to make her talk to him, but she'd made it pretty clear that all she wanted was to be left alone. He fears that if he tries to cheer her up, he'll only say the wrong thing and then she'll give him one of her looks. And Alistair really doesn't want that; he finds Bron scary enough at the best of times, but now, silent and downcast, she's downright chilling.
Without any idea of how to help Bron, instead he'd spent the last few days focusing on his own business, trying to figure out what to do now that the Inquisition was obviously no longer in need of his services.
It had been nice when he'd thought he could help find the wardens, when he'd thought he could be useful, important. But now he realises how foolish he'd been.
It's obvious to him now that he should've just let someone else find the wardens.
Someone with the resources and the contacts to do the job properly.
Someone like Hawke.
His old friend had contacted him several months ago with questions about the wardens, spurned on by her concern for her warden brother. And then a lengthy correspondence had followed, with the two of them writing back and forth with whatever information they could gather. Nothing conclusive, of course, but he'd hoped that in sharing whatever information he came across, he and Hawke might, together, be able to figure out why The Calling had struck and the wardens vanished.
He'd written to Hawke the night that Bron had shown up in his room, telling her about the Inquisition's search for the wardens.
And now he'd written to her again telling her of the Inquisition's demise and giving her all the information he'd gathered so far.
Let Hawke do with the information as she wished. Let Hawke be the one to solve this puzzle. Let Hawke be the hero.
Hawke was the far more obvious candidate anyway. As the Champion of Kirkwall, even a champion on the run, she would be far better placed to find the wardens.
And then Alistair can go back to this old life, go back to drifting from town to town, picking up whatever work he can find. He'd been making a decent living after all, certainly enough to get by. And sometimes he had even felt like he was doing something worthwhile, using his skills as a swordsman to help people against extortionists and bandits.
That's it – time to abandon silly notions of finding the wardens and get back to work.
He'd spent the last few days making inquiries around the village, had found out about a merchant in the neighbouring settlement who might be interested in some strong-arms to accompany him and his wears to Orlais.
It sounds like a decent job, exactly the kind of work Alistair had excelled at before.
And maybe… well… maybe he can persuade Bron to come with him.
While Bron had been… difficult at first, he had unexpectedly grown genuinely fond of her during their short time travelling together. She's intense, sure, and stern almost to the point of rudeness. But she's thoughtful, and insightful, with a sharp wit that Alistair finds oddly endearing.
Besides, she's good with a sword. And she can endure long travel without complaint. She would make an excellent partner, he thinks, for the kind of mercenary work that had supported him during his exile.
What else is she going to? Return to her family? Does she even have a family? Alistair had never heard her talk about any family; she'd only ever talked about the Inquisition.
As he enters the tavern where they'd been staying for the last few days, he's trying to think of what exactly he's going to say to her. He'll start by telling her about Hawke, and then tell her about the job he's found nearby. Then he'll ask her whether she's interested in joining him. He imagines she'll immediately say no. But he's also relatively confident that he can put forward a reasonably compelling argument – particularly if she has nowhere else to go.
He pauses for a moment just outside their room, takes a few steadying breaths to steel himself for what he imagines will be a rather difficult conversation.
When he finally goes through the door, he barely makes it across the threshold before he comes to an abrupt halt.
"Andraste's tits!" he exclaims, "what in the void is happening?"
Bron can't feel her legs.
She has no idea how long she's been sitting cross-legged on the floor but as she feels the numbness spreading up her legs, she concedes that it's perhaps been too long.
It's a relief actually. The numbness is preferable to the skittering tingle that had been annoying her for the last few hours.
She should probably get up, maybe pace around her room a bit to work some feeling back into her stiff limbs. But the floor is covered in paper, pages ripped from notebooks covered in scrabbled script and maps adorned with hastily scrawled lines, and she dare not move in case she disrupts hours of careful work.
She's getting close to something. She can feel it. She's not entirely sure what it is that she's close to – but there's something here, something in Alistair's haphazard assortment of notes that holds some truth about the fate of the wardens.
And that's it. That's all that matters now: just finding the wardens.
She knows that she can do it; she knows she can solve this puzzle. Then she can find the wardens. Then she can find out what links them to the breach, what links them to the rifts that are spilling demons across the lands of Thedas. Then she can finish the work that the Inquisition tried to start before it was so cruelly ended.
And she needs this. Needs so badly to have something to do, some purpose to achieve.
She's so close, so close.
Suddenly the door opens and a little burst of air causes her meticulously arranged papers to rifle and ripple. With a flurry of panic, Bron desperately grasps for the papers, furiously patting them down to keep them in place.
Dimly she's aware of Alistair talking, and there's something in the tone of his voice, confusion, perhaps, or maybe concern, but she's too busy trying to preserve her work to really pay him any mind.
She shoots up her hand before he can cause any more damage, palm raised to him in warning.
"Stop!" she cries, "not another step forward! You'll ruin it!"
"What is it?" he asks, and though she doesn't look up at him, too concerned with checking that her notes are still in their assigned order, she can tell from the slight waiver of his voice that it is indeed concern that colours his tone.
"I should think it's obvious," she replies, head still bowed over the papers strewn across the floor, "it's your research after all."
There's a pregnant pause as Alistair surveys the carefully ordered chaos at his feet, and while he makes no attempt to say anything, Bron finds his presence annoying nonetheless. She can feel him standing there – watching, looming – and she almost wishes he would say something so she can tell him to shut up.
Suddenly Alistair kneels at the edge of her papers, and there's another little whoosh of air as Alistair's hulking form lumbers inelegantly to the floor.
"Careful!" she snaps again.
"Sorry," he mumbles, and Bron's about to reprimand him again until she sees him straightening out the papers that he's just disturbed and Bron feels instead a tiny pang of appreciation.
"So…" he ventures cautiously, "what is this?"
Deciding that it's unlikely that Alistair will just leave (and, Maker, she wishes he would just leave), Bron heaves a sigh as she finally raises her head to look at him. "I'm looking at your research," she explains in clipped tones, "your research on the wardens. There's some interesting information here. There's… I think-" there's a pause as she struggles to articulate her thoughts, "I think you were on to something."
He shakes his head as he looks at her, his face marred with obvious unease at the mess she's strewn across the bedroom floor, at her hurried, peculiarly jumbled speech.
"I wasn't on to anything, Bron," he says, "it's just… it's just nonsense. Rumours and hearsay. There's nothing there!"
"No, look," she says, pointing to some papers then drumming her fingertip against a nearby map. "You've theorised that the wardens are taking part in some sort of… rituals. Blood magic. And then wardens have been travelling to the Western Approach, you suspect they're gathering at an old Tevinter ritual tower."
"That's just… gossip. I heard it from a barkeep who'd heard it from a drunk who he thought might be a warden. That's hardly a reliable source."
"Then we find some information to confirm it!" she says as if it's the most obvious thing in all of Thedas.
"And how do you suppose we do that?"
"Go to the original source, of course! All your information is second-hand – just rumours and unverified chatter. We need to find out straight from the wardens."
He scoffs. "Well how do you suppose we do that? The wardens are hardly the most talkative bunch"
"We go to Amaranthine!"
He visibly starts at that – her answer clearly not one that he had been expecting – and he opens and shuts his mouth a few times before finally stuttering out, "w-what?!... no!"
"Why not?!"
"We can't just stroll up to the warden's Keep and ask them what's going on!" he yells with unexpected sharpness and Bron can feel her brows arch toward her hairline in surprise. It is not like Alistair to raise his voice.
He rakes his fingers through his hair and takes a few deep breaths before continuing a little calmer, "the locals saw the wardens leave the Keep months ago – and even if there are wardens still left behind, can you imagine them just telling us what's been happening?"
"Of course not. That's why we'll just have to break in and find out for ourselves. There's got to be a report somewhere, a diary, something that'll explain what's going on."
"You can't break into Amaranthine!"
"What, like it's hard? You don't think I could break into Amaranthine?! I've broken into my fair share of Keeps, I'll have you know!"
"I'm not – I'm not doubting your proficiency at breaking and entering!" he shouts, his voice growing increasingly exasperated, "I'm just… I'm questioning whether it's a good idea!"
"Well how else are we going to find out what happened to the wardens?"
"Why do we have to find out at all? Let someone else do it!" he shouts, and Bron doesn't mean to wince but he's just so loud, his voice seeming too big for the cramped confines of their room.
He throws his hands up in frustration and stands up, looking around the room as if looking for an escape route. But while she expects him to leave, he instead carefully edges around her spread of papers until he can sit down on the wonky couch that he's been using as a bed during their stay.
She frowns at him as he moves, unable to keep her irritation hidden behind her usual mask of casual indifference. She just can't understand why he's being so difficult. She knows that he wants to find the wardens, that their unexplained absence weighs heavily on his mind, so why is he being so resistant to her perfectly reasonable plan?
Her joints click loudly as she pulls herself to her feet to follow him; her limbs moving stiffly as she tries to carefully pick her way across the papers strewn across the floor.
"Who else will do this if not us?" she asks when she's finally standing in front of him, looking down at his hunched form on the couch.
"I have a friend," he says, "I've sent them all the information I have. Let them find the wardens. They have a far greater chance of success than I."
"You mean Hawke?"
His head jerks up sharply, clearly surprised by her question.
"How did you know about Hawke?"
"Everyone knows about the Champion of Kirkwall."
He gives her a pointed look, clearly irritated by her purposefully evasive response. "No – I mean, how did you know that I've been in contact with her?"
There's a slight pause as Bron shuffles uncomfortably, uncertain as to the best response to Alistair's question. But before she can proffer an explanation, Alistair clearly reads the answer in her hesitation and Bron watches in dismay as the confusion drains from his face to make room for anger.
"Did you read my letters?!" he shouts, loud and fierce, and Bron feels a sudden prang of guilt at how hurt he sounds.
"No, I didn't read your letters," she answers calmly, then gives a hesitant pause before continuing with, "but I did look to see to whom they were addressed."
"What? I don't… how did you… when did you even see my letters?"
"They were in your pack," she says simply, shrugging her shoulders slightly, "it wasn't hard to find them; you didn't even try to conceal them."
"You looked in my pack!" he shouts, rising abruptly from the couch, and, Maker, Bron had never thought Alistair could sound so angry.
"Only to look at the letters!" she explains quickly, scrambling to think of why their conversation had turned so ugly and whether she could somehow fix it. "It's not like I was just rummaging around! Honestly, I don't know why you're so surprised. Of course I wanted to know with whom you've been corresponding. I am an Inquisition spy after all."
His brows quirk down and his lips draw thin, and – shit – that was not the right thing to say.
"You were an Inquisition spy!" he sneers. "Now the Inquisition's gone, you're just a snoop with no respect for personal privacy!"
Oh – now that's unexpected.
She can tell from the way his face suddenly tightens that he regrets the words as soon as he's said them, and there's an awkward, wary pause as he watches her for some sort of reaction.
She supposes his words should hurt more, the loss of the Inquisition still a fresh wound, but he's only spoken the truth and she finds it difficult to begrudge him that.
"I'm so sorry," he says, and Bron is amazed at how quickly his anger is replaced with remorse, how quickly his expression softens into one of regret. And for a startling moment she feels – well she's not quite sure how she feels – guilty, perhaps? Because she can't remember whether anyone has ever looked so sorry for having hurt her feelings before and, to be honest, she doesn't think she really deserves his apology.
"No, don't apologise," she says, waving her hand dismissively, "you're… you're right."
She steps back, creates some space between them, trying in vain to escape his towering form and his too kind eyes, and for a long while they stand in awkward silence in the corner of the room. The air feels thick and stifled, as if their angry words still hang in the air between them, and Bron suddenly feels oddly deflated.
She'd felt buoyed when she'd been working on the floor, drawing Alistair's information together, coming close to finding the answers that had eluded her for so long. But now, standing in front of Alistair's pity-filled eyes, she just feels like some crazy woman, rambling about warden conspiracies and trying to persuade her sole remaining friend to break into a well-fortified stronghold.
"I'm sorry," she says at last, and she pauses to make sure that he's looking straight into her eyes when she adds, "I won't invade your privacy like that again."
He nods almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement of her apology and the tension between them seems to bleed away.
"Wow," he finally breathes, "this is not the conversation I was expecting to have when I walked through that door."
She looks at him with one brow arched questioningly. "And what conversation were you expecting to have?"
"I think I've found work," he says, "a merchant in the neighbouring village needs someone with a good sword arm to accompany him to Orlais."
"Oh," she replies plainly, and while she's sure her expression is calm and unassuming, she can feel a peculiar tightening in her stomach. For some reason that she can't seem to understand, the realisation that Alistair wants to leave her makes her feel oddly panicked.
She'd kind of assumed that Alistair would just come with her wherever she led; it hadn't even occurred to her that he might make his own plans.
"You could come with me?" he suggests, and Bron wonders whether she's imagining the hopeful lilt in his tone.
"Do you want me to?" she asks in place of a reply, calm expression still in place, only now there's a strange little pitter patter in her heart at the oddly thrilling thought that Alistair wants her to come with him.
"Yes, of course I do," Alistair says with a raggedy breath that Bron suspects was supposed to be a chuckle. "You're skilled with a blade – you would be an invaluable asset."
Oh… right, of course. He doesn't really want her companionship, just her skill with a sword.
"And, you know," he adds, the faintest of blushes darkening his cheeks, "I would quite like the company as well. Your company, that is."
Oh… well. That's nice.
Because they do make a good pair, much to Bron's surprise.
Alistair is too talkative, of course, and frustratingly self-deprecating, burdened with so much self-doubt that Bron honestly cannot understand how he bears it. But he's also considerate, and he's funny, and while he's a far cry from the heroic figure that Leliana had described him to be, there's something quietly honourable, almost distinguished, about him.
And now with the Inquisition gone, he really is all she has left.
But she knows that her pride would never allow her to become a common mercenary. And no matter how endearing she finds Alistair, she knows that his friendship is not enough to give her life a sense of purpose.
And Bron needs purpose, some higher goal to strive toward. Because she'd seen too many capable, intelligent, extraordinary women – women like her mother – waste away while living their mundane, little lives in Highever, and Bron was determined not to become one of them.
"I… can't," she says at last, and Alistair is far less adept at schooling his expressions because she can immediately see his face droop at her rejection. "I have to go to Amaranthine. I have to find the wardens. And I hope that you'll come with me… but I'll understand if you can't."
He throws up his hands with frustration, lets out a petulant sigh. "Why is this so important to you?" he asks, a little exasperated, yes, but also genuinely curious.
She takes a moment to pause and think, choosing her words carefully, knowing that this is probably her last chance to persuade Alistair to come with her.
"It can't be a coincidence that the wardens disappeared at the same time that the breach appeared," she says, voice filled with tense urgency, "something is terribly wrong in the world and the wardens are right at the heart of it. Now we can either stand aside and watch the world crumble or we can do something about it!"
She steps forward and grabs his hands, desperate to convey just how important this is to her, and it's clear from the slight widening of Alistair's eyes that the gesture surprises him.
"Yes, the Inquisition is gone," she continues, "but we're still here. And as long as I live, I'm going to do whatever I can to finish the work that the Inquisition started!"
She looks up at him imploringly, desperately hoping beyond everything that she has, at last, persuaded him to come with her. Because as determined as she is to do as she says, and seek out the wardens, she's also afraid, terrified really, that she can't succeed on her own. And if Alistair doesn't come with her, then who will help her?
She wishes she could read him better, see beyond his surprise and his discomfort and understand what he is truly thinking. His eyes are wide, obviously a little taken aback by her impassioned call to action, but the rest of his face is blank, and there's a long silence as he takes the time to consider his next words.
"Are you sure this isn't just grief?" he asks, and Bron can't help but grimace at his somewhat disappointing response.
Grief?
She can't help but feel a little affronted by his question. As far as Bron is concerned, she'd already taken time to grieve. She'd taken a moment to cry, to mourn for those that she'd lost, but that was days ago and now she was over it.
Of course Bron recognises that there is no shame in grief, her mother had taught her that; it was a healthy and natural response to loss. But to wallow in grief was vulgar, an indulgence for those with too much time on their hands.
"You've suffered a terrible loss," he continues, pointedly ignoring Bron's outraged expression, "and as much as you pretend that it doesn't bother you, I know that it must. Are you sure that this plan of yours… are you sure that it's reason that's driving you, not grief?"
"Yes, I'm sure," she replies, a little too quick to be completely convincing.
Alistair purses his lips and glares at her with narrowed eyes in response, clearly still doubting that Bron is truly as over her grief as she insists. But he doesn't push her, doesn't probe her resolve, just chuckles softly as he shakes his head resignedly.
"You're going to go to Amaranthine anyway, right? Whether I come with you or not?"
"Absolutely."
"Well then I suppose I have to go," he says, and while he still sounds unsure, Bron is encouraged by the slight upward tug at the corner of his lips, "someone has to keep you out of trouble."
She can't help but smile at his words, not the small, polite smile she gives to stable boys and shopkeeps, nor the sly smirk she makes when she's amused by her own humour, but a genuine, open smile, wide and crooked and toothy.
His smile broadens in return and they both stand and grin at each other like fools, suddenly giddy at the realisation that, yes, they really are embarking on some ludicrous mission to find the wardens and save all of Thedas.
And yet despite the absurdity of their situation, and the enormity of the task ahead of them, Bron finally feels a huge weight lift. Because she doesn't feel powerless anymore, no longer frustrated and vulnerable, just determined.
Bron has a purpose again, a purpose and a partner, and if the Inquisition can no longer save Thedas, well then she'll just have to do it herself.