Note: Bron does her spy thing at Vigil's Keep
Bron sidles gingerly across the ledge, toes pushed as far against the masonry as possible as she inches along the wall. Her fingers cling to the cracks between each grand slab of stone, her calloused fingertips only just managing to hold her body flush to the outside of the keep. Her cheek rubs against the wall with every step, skin catching against the rough stone, and the splintering pain is an unwelcome distraction when she really just wants to focus on staying alive.
One wrong move will send her plummeting 50 feet to the courtyard below and while Bron is relatively confident that she is not going to meet a tragically premature death this night, she'd rather concentrate on her footwork than worry about the blossoming pain as her cheek is ripped raw.
And besides, it would be rather embarrassing to meet an untimely end now when Bron is so close to breaching the main keep. There's a small window up ahead, overlooking the narrow ledge along which Bron is making slow but steady progress, and as long as she can reach the window before her grip falters, well then she'll be inside and the hard part will be over.
This final leg of the climb has proven more difficult than Bron had originally expected. She'd spent the last week reconnoitring the perfect entry route, had spent the last few nights hopping the outer and inner curtain walls so that she could slink around the ward and courtyard and take stock of the keep's layout and guard postings. And while the window does indeed present an ideal entryway into the keep, the ledge had looked far wider from ground level and is now proving a greater challenge than expected.
At least the rumours Alistair had heard about Vigil's Keep during his travels had so far been proven correct; the keep really did appear to be largely abandoned, with only a few token wardens left on patrol. Bron had encountered very few guards making their rounds so far and she hopes that she will find the interior of the keep similarly deserted.
When Bron finally reaches the window, she's dismayed to discover that it's a little higher up the wall than she had anticipated and her fingers can only just curve over the top of the windowsill.
Well bugger, she thinks, stifling the frustrated groan that she can feel rumbling at the back of her throat.
It's not an insurmountable problem, of course, but she's already tired from the climb and she's just not sure whether she can muster one more burst of energy.
Tightening her grip as strongly as she can, Bron smears her feet against the wall a few steps then swings her left leg up until her heel hooks onto the wooden sill. She rocks her weight over her heel and simultaneously pulls with all the strength in her arms, trying desperately not to smack her face into the windowpane as she levers herself onto the sill.
Balanced precariously on the narrow shelf, Bron lets out a raggedy sigh and waits a few moments for her heart to stop pounding so furiously before trying to continue. There's no point rushing when her haste will simply lead to errors she can ill afford.
Pulling a small, slim knife from her boot, she works the latch of the window until she hears a faint click and the pane slowly creaks open. It almost seems too easy after her long, arduous climb. But then she suspects nobody expected anyone to be stupid enough to attempt to climb the keep's sheer, stone walls, otherwise they would have installed proper locks on the windows. Although proper locks probably wouldn't have been able to keep Bron out anyway, at least not for long.
She closes the window gently behind her, not wanting to leave anything amiss in case someone walks passed, and starts creeping down the corridor in no particular direction. Despite her days of snooping, she's never been able to determine the interior layout of the keep, never explored this far inside, and now she's forced to just trust her instincts and hope she can find something about the wardens before the night is spent.
Bron is relieved to find that the inside of the keep is just as quiet as the ward and she moves through the corridors largely unimpeded. The barracks present nothing of interest, and neither does the library, and Bron is just beginning to feel the first pang of disappointment when she pushes open a heavy door and finds herself in a packed office.
The walls are lined with bookcases, each shelf groaning beneath piles of books and reams of paper, and even the desk that dominates the centre of the room is burdened with carefully organised piles of letters, missives and leather-bound tomes. Bron lets her fingers trail along the pages as she walks around the desk, a small smile tugging at her lips.
She picks up a small pile of letters addressed to a Seneschal Varel and gives this unknown man her silent thanks. Hopefully his correspondence can help her find the answers she seeks.
Realising that her time is fleeting, Bron starts to rifle through the papers and books, her fingers plucking furiously between the pages while trying not to disturb the carefully organised piles too much. Hopefully no one will even notice she's been here until she's long gone.
She sees a few letters about the Western Approach and then several more about the venatori; they are immediately snatched from their pile and placed on the chair. She hasn't got enough time to read each letter now. She can only hope that she's picking the most pertinent documents based on the little snippets she's seen.
There's a folder filled with missives from Warden Commander Clarel – it's added to the growing pile on the chair – and then Bron finds a small notebook with scrawled notes about someone called Corypheus. She's about to put it back where she'd found it but then she remembers seeing the same name in some of Alistair's notes and while it means little to her, perhaps it'll have some meaning for him. She adds the book to the pile.
Bron's not sure how long she's been rummaging through the Seneschal's things but soon she gets the slowly crawling feeling that it's perhaps been too long. After one last glance across the desk (and she didn't even get a chance to hunt through the shelves), Bron gathers the papers she'd set aside on the desk chair and carefully slides them into her pack. When she swings the pack onto her back again, she's a little disconcerted to realise that it's a fair bit heavier than she'd imagined and the extra weight seems to slightly throw off her balance.
Hmmm… the downward climb will be trickier than planned.
Still, it's nothing that Bron can't handle – she's certainly climbed under trickier circumstances – and Bron heads through the door of the Seneschal's office with a satisfied smirk on her face. She's found far more information than she'd imagined and she can scarcely wait to get back to Alistair and start pouring through the documents.
She winds through the dim passageways of the keep, quickly, confidently, stopping only to check that her route is clear.
Nearing the corridor that leads back to the window where she'd entered, Bron comes to an abrupt halt when she hears hurried footsteps coming from just ahead. She immediately backtracks, heading toward the spiral staircase that she'd just descended, but she can hear voices drifting down the stairwell as well and Bron is suddenly struck with the unpleasant realisation that people are approaching her from both sides.
There's a small recess in the wall just ahead, a narrow alcove where an unlit brazier stands ready, and Bron pushes herself into the space as quickly as she can, drawing herself in so that she takes up as little space as possible. The cumbersome pack proves stubbornly reluctant to hide with her and it takes Bron a few minutes of uncharacteristic flustering until she can manipulate the bag to fit into the narrow space.
Bron stills as the footsteps near, taking only small, shallow breaths as she waits for the wardens to pass. Two men in rapt conversation walk passed. One man, tall and dark-haired, with a distinctly hooked nose, is discussing a training schedule for the few remaining wardens in the keep, while the other man, older and bearded, interrupts whenever he can to add his own insights.
As she watches them pass, the dark-haired man stops unexpectedly, looking thoughtful and oddly startled – as if he's suddenly remembered that he has something important to do but cannot remember what it is.
He's barely a few feet away from her hiding place and Bron holds her body taught as she patiently waits. Is it possible that he heard her? Caught a glimpse of something amiss from the corner of his eye? Maybe he can just sense her presence, a warden trick of which she's unaware?
She waits in the uncomfortable stillness, willing silently for the man to continue on his way, when two more wardens arrive, walking from the direction of the stairwell. The new arrivals greet the dark-haired man and his elderly companion, and a lively conversation ensues. One of the wardens, a dwarf, laughs heartily at his own joke, earning him a good-natured rebuke from the dark-haired man, and then all four of them walk down the corridor and away from Bron's alcove.
Even with the corridor clear, Bron waits a few more minutes, ears strained, until she's sure that she can hear no other wardens in the vicinity. When she's finally satisfied, she unfurls from the cramped confines of the alcove and stretches her limbs until she hears the pleasant pop of her joints.
Ugh – that was unpleasantly close, she grouses to herself as she starts down the corridor once more, her legs protesting at the sudden movement.
It's not long until Bron finds her way back to the window that will lead her away from the keep and to safety, and while it's a welcome sight, it's also a somewhat daunting one; she's not really looking forward to the downward climb. She peers out over the windowsill to the small ledge below, then the sheer walls that drop down to the courtyard at the foot of the keep. It looks a long way down. It had not been easy, manoeuvring herself up to the window in the first place; doing the same move in reverse will surely be impossible.
Well – she'll just have to jump for it, let her body drop from the window and hope that she can catch the ledge before she plummets to an unfortunate end. Then she can sidle along the ledge while hanging from her fingers. It'll take her some time, and tear the skin on her fingertips to shreds, but right now it appears to be her only option.
She clambers onto the windowsill, turns her back on the sweeping view over Amaranthine, then gingerly lowers herself until she's hanging from the sill, body stretched below her. All she has to do now is let go, let go and let her body fall until she can grab the ledge.
Let go, and hope her reflexes are fast enough.
Let go, and hope her fingers are strong enough.
Oh shit, she mutters beneath her breath.
And then she lets go.
Alistair takes a long, slow swig from his hip flask and revels in the burning sensation as the brandy scours down the back of his throat. It's sickeningly cheap, of course, an exile isn't particularly well-placed to procure the good stuff, but it does the job and Alistair can feel its calming effects on his nerves.
It's been a while since he's had a drink; Bron hasn't really let him drink during their weeks together. It's not that Bron has explicitly been preventing him from drinking but she's kept them busy, efficient, travelling at such a prodigious rate that Alistair has simply not had the time to waste away the hours sitting at a barstool.
He doesn't want to admit how much he's missed it, how much this one simple drink is already working wonders to release the tension he can feel coiled in his chest. There'd been a time when he'd drunk, well… a lot. When Elissa's betrayal was still fresh, when he was first coming to terms with his exile, and only the blistering haze of alcohol was enough to dull his senses. But it had been years since those days, those days of aimlessness, of bar fights and crippling self-pity. He doesn't need to drink anymore, doesn't need to dull his senses or forget his worries. He just likes to drink, likes the way it warms his stomach, likes the way it calms his nerves.
And, Maker, is he nervous.
Bron has been gone for hours.
Somewhere behind the grey turrets and curtain walls of Vigil's Keep, Bron is scouring the warden fortress for some information, some long-elusive insight into the warden's whereabouts, and Alistair is… worried.
He trusts that Bron is skilled, that she knows what she's doing. And his fears had been somewhat allayed by her days of research, the numerous visits to the keep to determine its layout. She'd returned safely the last few nights, why should tonight be any different?
He takes another long sip.
There's a half-written letter on the desk in front of him, another report for Hawke giving her an update on their search for the wardens, but he's not really in the mood to finish it right now. He's too preoccupied with thoughts for Bron. And, if he's completely honest, he's probably had a bit too much to drink by now; his own handwriting already seems blurred and indistinct to his eyes.
And so he has nothing to do except wait.
And pray.
He doesn't speak to the Maker often, and he rather suspects that the Maker would probably prefer not to hear from him, but if his prayers can somehow help Bron in returning safely, well… he supposes it can't hurt.
When he finally hears the doorknob rattle, he startles slightly in his seat and makes for the dagger resting on the tabletop. But before he can get a proper grip on his weapon, Bron hurries through the doorway, and it's a good job that she's not an enemy because his reflexes appear embarrassingly slow tonight.
"You're back!" he cries with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary, but his immense relief at seeing her is genuine and he doesn't really see the need to hide his feelings when they're the truth.
"I am back!" she says in response, voice buoyed with equal enthusiasm.
She's smiling, broad and crooked and more than a little smug, and Alistair immediately knows that her mission must have been a success.
"You found something?" he asks, mainly out of politeness to give her the pleasure of answering in the affirmative.
"Yes I did!" she answers, swinging her pack off of her back and dropping it triumphantly onto the desk. "Just look," she insists as she opens the pack and starts pulling out the documents, "letters, notes – even hand-written orders from Warden Commander Clarel herself!"
It's a dizzying array of information that she's managed to collect and Alistair's not sure whether it's just the cheap booze or whether it's Bron's infectious delight, but there's a pleasant buzzing at the back of his skull. Maybe, for the first time in as long as he can remember, something is going right.
He flicks through the papers, not really taking in the contents, just marvelling at the trove of information now at their disposal. The wardens had always been so damned secretive. Even before he was exiled from the order, there had been so many things about them that he'd never known, let alone understood. There's a perverse thrill of pleasure in finally having the secrets of the wardens in his hands – a delightful fuck you to Elissa.
"This is incredible," he breathes with obvious wonderment.
"I know," she says with a smug smirk and a playful quirking of one brow.
But then the cheer suddenly drains from her face and Alistair's not sure what's happened to upset her but when he notices her eyes focus on his hip flask sitting atop the desk, Alistair suddenly feels oddly shamefaced.
Can she tell that he's a little drunk? Can she smell it on his breath? Is she judging him for it? Bron had never seemed the puritanical sort but then she had dedicated her entire adult life to working for the Chantry. Despite their weeks of travel together, he still doesn't actually know that much about her.
She picks up the hip flask and carefully unscrews the cap before taking a tentative sniff. She immediately recoils, her nose crinkling in disapproval.
He opens his mouth to explain himself to Bron, although he's not really sure what there is to explain. It's pretty obvious what he's been doing while waiting for her. And he doesn't really feel that he should have to defend himself to her. His enjoyment of the occasional drink isn't really any of her business, whether she disapproves or not.
But before he can say anything, Bron turns her back on him and walks primly across their shared room to her pack in the corner. He can hear shuffling for a moment, followed by a metallic chinking, and when she turns back to face him, there's a crooked grin on her face and her own hip flask in her hand.
"We are not going to celebrate with that watered-down piss," she announces triumphantly and Alistair can't help but grin in return.
She takes a long swig from the flask as she walks back across the room and when she offers the flask to him, he gladly accepts it.
He takes his own long sip and – Maker – this is the good stuff.
"Antivan?" he asks, not because he considers himself a particular connoisseur of brandies, but because the only person he'd ever known to keep such good alcohol on hand had been Zevran.
She nods, and he thinks that she might look impressed but it's more likely that he's just imagining it. When she reaches out her hand to take the flask back from him, he hands it over with palpable reluctance, but before she takes another swig, she stops and pauses, looking oddly thoughtful.
She holds the flask up. "To the Inquisition," she says with a nod, "though our friends may be lost to us, may their spirits guide us to success in the task ahead."
She takes a quick sip before handing the flask over, looking at him somewhat expectantly. Although if she's hoping that he'll contribute his own toast, he fears she may be bitterly disappointed; Alistair had never been one for fine words. He mulls the flask over as he turns it in his hands, watching the candlelight dance across the smooth silver, before holding it aloft.
"To us," he says before taking a long, indulgent swig of warming brandy.
Because the two of them, this unlikely partnership, means far more to him than the Inquisition ever had. Alistair had never known the Inquisition, had only ever heard about it through other people, and while Bron had spoken of the Inquisition with great reverence and pride, it had never really felt real to him.
But Bron is real. Difficult, yes, and challenging – infuriating even – but she's real and she's here and she makes him feel hopeful.
And that, he had decided, was worthy of a toast.