Note: Alistair got a character-building flashback earlier in the fic and now it's Bron's time!
And then it's back to our favourite duo as they continue on their journey to find the wardens.
Seven years earlier - Highever
Lady Cousland's delicate fingers trail idly over the assortment of jewellery pieces displayed on the tabletop before her. There's a necklace with matching earrings featuring a delicate floral design, a headband of stylised feathers, a wide choker of interlocking geometric shapes. Her fingers stop to trace the swirling engraving on a silverite armband before finally coming to rest on an elaborate dragon-shaped headpiece.
Bron smiles as the Teyrna lifts the piece for closer inspection; it is, after all, one of her finest creations and she is inordinately proud of it. The dragon is rendered in the highest-quality gold and its outspread wings, fanning dramatically to each side of its body, are adorned with brightly coloured enamel insets.
Bron's father may be renowned as one of the finest blacksmiths in all of Thedas, but Bron's skill for delicate metalwork far exceeds his. He'd tried to teach her his craft, like he'd done with her brothers before her, but while she'd proven an adequate blacksmith, she'd taken to the finer, more detailed work with astonishing finesse. So while the duelists and the chevaliers flock to her father's forge for their custom swords and tailor-made armour, the nobles of Highever and across the Coastlands come to Bron for the finest jewellery and adornments.
Lady Cousland frowns as she turns the tiara in her hands, brows ducking low and nose curling disdainfully.
"It's a little… on the nose, don't you think?" she asks as she looks down at Bron, "I mean… a dragon motif for a party commemorating the end of the blight?"
"I suppose," Bron answers, smiling tensely. She's trying to look cheerful, trying to hide her disappointment with the Teyrna's criticism; she suspects she's probably failing.
"No I think I'll go for these pieces instead," she says, tapping on the necklace of entwined flowers with her fingertips.
Florals? Bron thinks, barely suppressing a smirk, how original.
"An excellent choice," Bron says nodding.
One of the Teyrna's servants immediately plucks up the necklace and its matching earrings from the table so that she can finish dressing her mistress while Bron starts carefully putting away the rejected items into her pack.
If the Teyrna doesn't want the dragon, well, fine, it's her loss.
Lady Cousland smiles at her, politely but not warmly, before turning her attention toward the mirror in the corner of her dressing room. She is immediately enveloped by servants brandishing an incomprehensible array of hairpins and ribbons, and Bron takes that as her cue to leave. After an awkward little curtsy, Bron walks swiftly from the Teyrna's room.
The corridors of Highever castle are bustling with activity, servants hurrying with platters of food and drink, or with arms laden with gifts and flowers, and Bron weaves quickly between the people, eager to stay out of their way. It seems like an awful lot of effort, she thinks, and probably an exorbitant amount of money, just to entertain a group of haughty nobles.
It's late in the evening, and Bron is keen to get home to check on her family, but when she passes a wide doorway leading to the castle's grand hall, she comes to a sudden and unexpected halt. Music is spilling into the corridor, something lively and lilting and beautiful, and the air smells enticingly of spices. She knows she should carry on and hurry home but instead she feels the unmistakable tug of curiosity pulling her toward the hall, and she soon finds herself poking her head around the doorway – just to take a look.
Bron had never visited the old Highever castle before it had burned down during the Blight, but she'd heard that the Teyrn's new castle was far grander than its predecessor. In fact there are some who claim it is one of the grandest castles in all of Ferelden. As she gazes up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the castle's central hall, its tall windows and carved pillars, Bron must concede that they are probably right.
Lady Cousland may still be getting ready but the hall is already teaming with noble guests (Maker forbid the Teyrna be on time for her own party) and Bron can't help but stare at the gaudy colours of the nobles' attire, the glittering lanterns suspended above the hall like stars and the plates of succulent food.
Bron is a practical woman, coming from a long, proud line of practical women. Sensible, grounded women who had steered their families through tough times, acted as pillars of strength for their communities. Her mother had taught her to always be economical, logical, pragmatic. She should never be wasteful, never be boastful, never indulge in activities that lacked clear objectives. And most of all, she should never be vain. Vanity was a failing of the idle, a distraction for the dim-witted. Of course she should always be clean and tidy – her mother had often stressed the importance of being… presentable. But she should never indulge in frippery.
And yet, looking out across the ballroom, at the patterned silks and the twinkling lights, Bron can't help but think that, well, some of that frippery looks rather… pretty.
She knows that she should leave at once, head home to check on her father and brothers. But as she stands in the doorway to the hall, she can almost feel the music of the orchestra and the smells of the buffet trying to entice her forward, as if they were real, physical forces pulling her into the hall. Would it really be too bad if she… stayed?
Surely her family could keep themselves out of trouble for one evening? And surely no one would notice one more addition to the merriment? And maybe the Hero of Ferelden would even be in attendance! She is the Teyrn's sister after all. What an extraordinary encounter that would be; to meet the hero who defeated the Archdemon and saved all of Thedas!
Just a few hours, she reasons to herself, she'll stay for just a few hours.
With a pleased smile on her face, she ducks into a small antechamber next to the hall. There's a small side-table in the corner of the room, covered with a long, richly embroidered tablecloth, and Bron decides it's the perfect place to stash her pack. As she crouches down to hide her bag, she catches sight of herself in a meticulously polished bronze plate atop the table and – well – she's not the most impressive sight.
She always wears her finest dress for visits to Highever castle, the one usually reserved for weddings and Chantry festival days, and while she thinks it's pretty and flattering, it is a little… plain.
Struck with sudden inspiration, she delves into her pack to pull out a few of the pieces of jewellery that had proven not to the Teyrna's tastes. Bron had made each piece after all, why shouldn't she be the one to wear them for once?
She slips a wide golden cuff around one wrist, then drapes a long chain of gold and glass beads around her waist. Finally, she pulls the dragon tiara free from its padded case and places it gently, almost reverently, on her own head. There's a frisson of excitement when she catches sight of her reflection again; she looks… beautiful, regal.
She feels a bit silly, bubbling with a childish giddiness that she thought she'd long outgrown. But when she stands, she finds she's standing a little straighter, a little prouder, the weight of the tiara forcing her to hold her head a little higher. She certainly doesn't feel like a child; she feels like a queen.
Her hands sweep over the emerald green of her dress, smoothing out the creases, and then, with a smug smile firmly in place, she pulls herself to her full height and steps confidently out into the hall.
It's easy to feel swept away with the festivities, with the swell of the music and the ebb and flow of the crowd, and though she's a stranger here, she's surprised that she doesn't feel more out of place.
She helps herself to a couple of glasses of wine, something sharp and bright that leaves a pleasant hum at the back of her head, then snatches a few tarts from the buffet table to nibble on while watching the guests as they dance. The dance floor is a blur of movement, a kaleidoscope of pattern and colour, of furs and velvets, jewels and gold. It's a mesmerising display of opulence, and while she knows she should be disapproving, she just can't seem to muster the condemnation.
"And what do we have here?" comes a voice from over her shoulder and the sudden intrusion causes Bron to startle. But the voice sounds familiar, soft and distinctly Orlesian, and Bron's already smiling when she turns to face her old friend.
"Well, Leliana, you always make these parties sound like such fun – I thought I would sneak in and see for myself."
Leliana smiles at her, the kind of roguish grin that makes you feel like you're in on some marvellous secret, and Bron can't help but smile broadly in return.
Leliana looks stunning of course, a fitted gown of midnight blue accentuating her pale skin and red hair, and she holds herself with the kind of effortless elegance that Bron knows she will never be able to emulate.
"And is it everything you thought it would be?" Leliana asks, brows wagging mischievously.
Bron shrugs. "I suppose."
"Ah…" Leliana says with a slow nod, "I imagine you think all of this is a… vulgar display of frippery? A wasteful indulgence for the silly and the vain?"
Bron blushes a little, her mother's exhortations sounding silly coming from Leliana's mouth.
"Something like that," Bron replies curtly.
Leliana lets out a quiet sigh as she shakes her head, and despite their many years of acquaintance, Bron finds herself unable to read Leliana's expression. Is it disapproval? Maybe disappointment? Bron doesn't like it either way.
"You are just like your mother," she says, and though Bron has always considered such a statement to be a compliment, it's clear from Leliana's tone that she does not mean it as one.
Her unreadable expression soon twists into something more playful and with a conspiratorial little smile, Leliana links her arm with Bron's and leads her through the twisting crowds of the hall.
When the women are at the centre of the room, the dancers spinning frantically around them, Leliana leans closer to Bron. "Tell me what you see," she instructs.
Bron gets the distinct feeling that she's being tested, which isn't actually an unusual feeling when in Leliana's company. Bron had never understood why but Leliana had always seemed determined to push her, challenge her. Whenever Leliana had visited her father's forge, she'd always made the time to spar with her, teach her politics and history, even a smattering of Orlesian phrases, and if Bron had ever said anything with which Leliana disagreed, she would always question Bron, again and again, forcing her to reconsider her assumptions. But while Bron is certainly used to being tested by Leliana, this time she gets the impression that it's… important.
Bron looks around the room, thoughtfully observing the revellers in the hall, from the exuberant nobles to the scurrying servants. She's unsure what answer Leliana is expecting, what constitutes a right answer, but she's keen not to disappoint her mentor.
"Well I believe the gentleman in the red doublet is attempting to court the woman with the feather headdress. He's been trailing after her all evening. And while the woman in the gold and green arrived with the elderly gentleman over there, she keeps slipping out of the hall with the young man in the black leather. I think they're having an affair."
"It could be perfectly innocent," Leliana comments, though her tone lacks conviction, "maybe they're just chatting."
Bron snorts inelegantly, "his waistcoat is buttoned up incorrectly – it didn't look like that earlier in the evening."
Leliana nods with a small smile. Bron's not sure what that means. Did she do it right?
"Oh, and that waiter has been stashing cutlery all evening," Bron adds with a nod toward the corner of the room, where a member of the waiting staff is trying to subtly slide a silver jam knife into his shirt sleeve.
Leliana chuckles softly.
"Impressive," says Leliana, and Bron feels relief wash over her until Leliana adds, "is that all?"
Bron doesn't know how to respond to that, doesn't know what to say that will satisfy Leliana's question. So instead she just frowns petulantly.
"You've always been observant, excellent attention to detail," explains Leliana, "but there's still so much you don't see. It's a party, Bron, a communal celebration of the end of the blight. You've picked out the individuals, their foibles and their faults, but what about the big picture? There is meaning in shared experiences, there is power in ritualised social events."
Bron's brows pinch quizzically. "I don't understand."
"I know you don't, sweetpea," she says with an affectionate squeeze of Bron's arm, "but what I'm trying to tell you… there is so much more going on in this room that just gaudy frippery."
Bron thinks she understands but at the same time… she really doesn't. Leliana claims that there is meaning to be found in this exuberant tumble of bodies, in this ostentatious spectacle of consumption and revelry, but all Bron can see is impractical waste. She'll concede that it's appealing – an enticing spectacle for someone such as Bron who is used to a far plainer existence. But is it meaningful?
Leliana leads Bron out of the crowded hall and into an adjoining room, a quiet gallery with tall windows overlooking the gardens, and Bron finds herself grateful for the calm. Finally coming to a pause, Leliana turns to face Bron, holding her gaze with a look of such intensity that Bron feels mildly uncomfortable.
"I have a proposition for you," Leliana says at last and she seems… excited? Her eyes gleaming and smile beaming. "Why don't you come with me? Back to Orlais?"
"What?!" Bron barks with surprise, "why would I go to Orlais?"
"Work with me. Help me serve the Divine. Put your considerable skills to achieve something… something greater than what awaits you here in Highever."
Bron is speechless. Leave her home? Leave Ferelden? Who will look after her family if she leaves? Her brothers are good men, hard-working and well-meaning, but they are… rowdy, and they tend to bring out the worst in each other, always trying to outdo each other with their ridiculous antics. And her father had never been able to control them (had never felt particularly inclined to do so); that had always been mother's job before she'd died.
And her father, what of him? He is a talented blacksmith, an incredible craftsman, able to achieve extraordinary things when he puts his mind to them. But he's fickle, flighty, easily distracted by things that are pretty, things that are fun. And of course he drinks too much. Never to grotesque excess but certainly too much for someone whose capacity for sensible decision-making is already limited. Without Bron to keep him in line, how would he support the family?
"I can't-" she begins, and Leliana immediately interrupts her with a wave of her hand.
"Don't answer now – think about it," she says, fixing her with a severe stare, "but promise me you'll really think about it."
Bron nods, and not just because she knows that it's what Leliana wants – it is genuinely a tempting offer. While she would never admit it out loud, Bron has always wanted to see the world outside of Highever, to see the places that her father had always talked about in his silly stories.
But Bron has responsibilities, important responsibilities to tend to, and it just wouldn't be practical to throw everything aside for the sake of adventure.
"Your mother was a remarkable woman," Leliana continues, clearly deciding that more persuasion is required, "too cold for my tastes, but certainly a woman of remarkable intelligence and strength. And I know that you want to emulate her, I know that you feel like you have to take her place now that she's gone. But her life doesn't have to be your life, Bron."
Leliana knows her too well, knows exactly what insecurities to prod, and Bron almost resents how transparently Leliana is trying to manipulate her. But then – Leliana does have a point. Her mother had indeed been a remarkable woman, intelligent and formidable, a force of nature that no one could subdue, and yet she'd lived her whole life in the same town, married to a silly man for whom she had little respect. And her mother had expected the same for her, a sensible marriage to a reasonable man who would give Bron a stable, secure life.
The mere thought of it made Bron want to scream.
She'd never understood why her mother had put so much time and effort into educating her, molding her into a strong, competent women in her image, if she was just going to burden her with some small, confining existence.
Bron knows she is destined for something greater.
"Come with me," trills Leliana in a lilting sing-song voice, tugging Bron by the arm back toward the great hall and the dancing throngs, "I'll teach you how to dance!"
"I know how to dance!" Bron snaps back indignantly.
"You know how to dance like a Ferelden, let me teach you how to dance like an Orlesian!"
Bron doesn't really know what it means to 'dance like an Orlesian' but, based on her sturdy Ferelden upbringing, she suspects it's probably a bad thing. But then she'll need to know the right moves when she follows Leliana to Orlais.
If, her mind corrects, not when. She hasn't made her mind up yet.
But if she did go?
Well, maybe it won't stop at Orlais! Maybe she'll travel across all of Thedas, from Mont-de-Glace to the shores of the Rialto Bay. At the very least, she'll get to meet the Divine! See first-hand how the Game is played. She'll see the glassy waters of Lake Celestine, walk the sun-drenched walnut groves of the Ylenn Basin.
This could be the first step into a far larger world, the first step toward a far grander existence. If she leaves Ferelden, well, who knows how far she'll go?
9:41 Dragon Age
The wagon gives a sudden jerk, the wheel hitting a large stone no doubt, and Alistair tenses his whole body to keep it still against the tossing and pitching. Bron is asleep beside him, body pressed flush against his in the cramped confines of the wagon, and Alistair is determined to let her sleep, even with the violent juddering of the wagon.
Her head is resting against his shoulder, her hand bunched in the fabric of his sleeve, and it's a peculiar intimacy with a woman who values personal space more than most. He knows that she would never have ventured this close had she been awake, probably wouldn't have even sat next to him in the first place had the wagon not been so stuffed full of crates.
But she's clearly exhausted, having dropped off almost the moment they'd left the market town at Herne Hill, and if Alistair can give her a few precious moments of sleep, well then he'll sit as still as he can manage and let her rest.
Occasionally she lets out a quiet snuffle, or a faint groan, and her grip on his sleeve seems to be getting tighter and tighter, like she's desperately holding on to something she's afraid to lose. On second thought, maybe he should wake her; she doesn't seem to be having particularly pleasant dreams.
The wagon suddenly veers around a corner and the movement causes a box to slip from its place and smack against the floor of the wagon with a sharp thud. Bron immediately jerks upright, her eyes wide with shock, and her hand instinctively reaching for where her rapier should be attached to her belt had she not removed the weapon and propped it against her pack on the floor before she'd fallen asleep.
Her head turns frantically to scan the inside of the wagon, her face more panicked than he would expect, and Alistair wonders for a moment whether she's forgotten where they are. Then she looks at Alistair, curled up on the wagon floor beside her, and it must have dawned on her what she'd been doing while she was asleep because an uncharacteristic blush suddenly stains her cheeks and she ducks her head to avoid making eye contact with him.
"I'm… uh… sorry about-" she gestures vaguely at his shoulder.
"It's all right," he says with a tiny smirk that would probably piss her off were she to actually look at him, "you were asleep."
"Right… yes…" she says, settling beside him once more, although this time she's left a good few inches between his shoulder and hers, an impressive feat in the cramped confines of the wagon. She must be pressed tight against the crates to allow that small sliver of space between them.
"Are we there yet?" she asks after a long pause that feels more tense than Alistair would have expected given that Alistair thought they were passed such awkwardness. They'd been travelling together for six weeks now and had long since fallen into an easy camaraderie. This sudden uneasiness between them feels… wrong.
"No, we're only a few hours outside Herne Hill, it's at least another six to Crestwood."
She sighs as she fidgets uncomfortably next to him, clearly dissatisfied with his answer.
"This is too slow; we're going to miss our rendezvous with Hawke" she grouses, "the horses would have been faster."
"The horses are exhausted, they need a break from carrying us. This is better," he says, gesturing to the wagon around them. "Besides, Hawke will wait."
It had only been a few days since they'd received Hawke's letter requesting a rendezvous, and while he shares Bron's eagerness to reach Hawke as soon as possible, it would be no use to push the horses to the point of exhaustion and uselessness.
She pulls her features into an exaggerated grimace, the kind of face which suggests that she knows he's right but is not happy about it.
They sit in silence, which in itself is not unusual for the two of them, but this one feels… different, strained. After months spent travelling together, Alistair has come to recognise the nuances between Bron's different silences and he knows that this is not the good kind of silence. It's a tense kind of silence, cold rather than comfortable, and he can tell from the tightness of her expression that something is bothering her.
"Want to talk about it?" he finally ventures, knowing that her answer is probably no but thinking he should ask anyway.
"Talk about what?"
"Whatever's bothering you."
"Nothing's bothering me."
"You're lying."
Her head jerks to the side to glare at him, clearly resenting the accusation, and Alistair straightens his posture in response, staring her down. Someone else might wither under one of Bron's glares but Alistair knows that, for once, he's right, and he won't let Bron get away with lying to him.
Finally Bron relents under his stare and there's an odd crumpling in her posture, her shoulders curling inward, her head bowing forward as if to hide from him.
"I was having a… vivid dream," she confesses, and he can't help but notice that she's picking at her fingernails, a nervous gesture that does not suit her.
He's not sure whether he should push further – Bron relents personal information with great reluctance – but he figures he's already got her to confess one thing, might as well see what else he can glean. Besides, confession is good for the soul.
"About what?" he asks.
She sighs, rumbling with frustration, and he's sure that this time she really will tell him to sod off. But instead she raises her head and finally looks at him, and she looks… lost, perhaps? Guilty? It's not an expression he's seen Bron wear before and it's hard to pin down exactly what it means.
"Leliana," she says at last, and that's absolutely not what Alistair was expecting her to say, "I was remembering the evening that she recruited me, when she asked me to come with her to Orlais. I was… so excited. Flattered as well, that she thought my skills were sufficient, but mainly excited. And for some reason – I don't know why – I pretended that I wasn't."
She pauses, looks around, as if lost for words and hoping to find an explanation scrawled along the wagon's walls.
"And I was always like that," she continues, "Leliana showed me such amazing things, she taught me so much, and I always acted like it was… an inconvenience, some silly indulgence distracting me from more serious tasks. I just… I don't know why I did that."
"You take things seriously – there's nothing wrong with that," he insists, "you're just… dedicated."
"She was like family. I loved her… and I don't think I ever told her how thankful I was for… everything."
Alistair had always found Bron's customary façade of calm indifference supremely irritating – but now, confronted with such raw regret in her eyes, Alistair feels somewhat overwhelmed. He's just not sure what to say.
"She knew," he insists, "Leliana was the most perceptive person I have ever met. She knew."
Bron smiles at that, and it's a small, brittle thing, but it's a start and Alistair feels immense relief at the sight.
"I'm sorry," she says, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.
"For what? Having feelings?"
"Yeah," she says with a dry chuckle, "something like that."
"You know, you're allowed to mourn," he says, gently bumping her shoulder with his own. She gives him a quizzical look, and he's not sure whether it's a silent reprimand for the unsolicited physical contact or a dismissal of what she probably considers preposterous advice. "You've experienced a huge loss, you're allowed to be sad about it."
"I did mourn," she says, unexpectedly curt, "I-I… cried in your arms, for fuck's sake!"
"For barely a few minutes!" he barks back, "then you were back to business as usual. It was like nothing had happened! No – I mean – you need to mourn properly."
"And what was I supposed to do?!" she cries.
"I don't know! Show some normal human emotions – yelling, crying! Maybe break something?!"
"Break something? That doesn't seem like a sensible way of dealing with grief."
"I didn't say it was sensible! But sometimes it's necessary – it's cathartic!"
"Fine!" she snaps before lunging forward to rummage around in her nearby pack. After a moment of furious rifling, she pulls out a pencil and she waggles it in front his eyes before snapping it in half and throwing the two pieces to the floor of the wagon with a dramatic flourish of her hands.
"Are you happy now?!" she shouts, "I've committed a pointless act of destruction – am I mourning to your satisfaction now?"
She's looking at him sternly, brows drawn low, but there's a childishness to her scowl, her bottom lip pushing forward just a little too far, that makes her look almost comical.
He's suddenly struck with the ridiculousness of their situation, the two of them squished together in the back of a wagon, inexplicably arguing, perpetrating senseless acts of violence against innocent stationary. And before he can stop himself, Alistair starts laughing.
It's a dry chuckle at first – but then it builds and builds until it's a loud bellow, cheery and rumbling, filling the whole wagon with sound. And he knows that Bron'll be angry, that she'll assume he's laughing at her, but he's just too overwhelmed with the absurdity of this whole argument to stop.
Bron's scowl fades away to make room for confusion, clearly puzzled by Alistair's reaction, but while he expects her to reprimand him, instead a small, sharp laugh is wrenched from her mouth. She looks surprised at first, her hands rushing to her mouth as if she can push the sound back again, but then she too finds herself overtaken with loud, bubbling laughter.
For a while they just sit and laugh, the tension between them bleeding away, and when the laughter finally subsides, Alistair can still feel the warmth in his skin and the grin tugging at his cheeks. Beside him, Bron's shoulders are still shaking with amusement as she tries to subtly swipe tears away from her eyes.
"Do you feel… better?" he ventures cautiously, gesturing toward the sad pencil rattling in pieces against the wooden boards.
"Not particularly," she replies with a sniff, "that pencil was expensive."
And then she giggles, low and dirty, and there's only a brief pause before Alistair has joined in with his own vulgar giggling and soon the two of them are once again in fits of laughter. He feels like a child. Not that his childhood was particularly filled with rambunctious laughter, but there's something distinctly juvenile about this kind of uncontrollable, unbridled amusement.
When they finally pull themselves to their senses, he notices that Bron is no longer straining to keep a cordial space between them but is instead resting comfortably against his side, her body flush to his. He doesn't know why but he feels like this is significant.
"I'm sorry," he finally ventures, "we all mourn in our own way. If you don't want to talk… well, that's fine with me."
"I'm not good at…" she pauses, then shrugs before adding, "talking,"
There's another long silence between them, although Alistair is relieved to find that this is one of her contented silences.
"Have I ever told you about Duncan?" he asks, though he knows he hasn't. He hasn't talked about Duncan to anyone, not since Elissa during the Blight. Not even Hawke, and she was the closest friend he'd had since leaving Ferelden for his exile.
And then he tells Bron everything.
He tells her about his childhood as an unwanted royal bastard, about his time with the wardens, about Loghain's betrayal and fighting alongside the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight.
And it's odd how much it still hurts to talk about his old mentor, the one person who had ever really thought Alistair would amount to anything, and as he tells Bron about his loss, he realises just how much the wound still smarts even after all this time.
He recognises now how hypocritical it was for him to chastise Bron for failing to address her grief when he is still so burdened with his own.
As he talks, he is surprised to feel Bron leaning into him. And this time, when she rests her head against his shoulder and curls her fingers into the fabric of his sleeve, it's not because she's fallen asleep but because she's trying to comfort him. It's a touching gesture from someone who guards their personal space so zealously and Alistair knows her well enough to understand the significance behind such a seemingly simple act.
If Bron doesn't know how to talk about her grief, how to open up to a friend, well then he'll just have to show her how. And maybe, in the process, he can finally start to heal the wounds he's gained from a lifetime of loss and disappointment.