Thanks to good weather, good hunting, and more than a bit of good luck, it's just over a week before they're within sights of Redcliffe village. For most of the journey, Alistair leads the way, heading their party—much to Morrigan's chagrin. As they walk, Savreen notices her scowls deepen, her witty comments sharpen, her frowns etch their way almost permanently into her face. It's only when Alistair clears his throat apologetically and says something about a crick in his ankle, though, that Morrigan makes her way up to Savreen's side in her new place at the front.
"'Tis most unusual," she says, tone pointed, "that young Alistair—"
"Is he really that much younger than you?" Morrigan shoots Savreen a glare, but strangely, she notices, there's little of the witch's usual malice in her expression. Instead, there's something more like respect.
"He carries himself as though he is a child, regardless of his age or mine." Savreen laughs at the jab, and Morrigan's own mouth twitches upward in the corner of her vision. "At any rate, 'tis most unusual that he has avoided speaking at any real length about his connection to Redcliffe, nor about his apparent intimate knowledge with the surrounding environs, do you not think?"
"Oh, I certainly do think." Her tone is a bit darker than intended as Savreen answers Morrigan's question, more suspicious and doubting. But it at least makes Morrigan purse her lips in apparent contentment. They walk a bit further in silence, Sher resolute and proud at Savreen's side, large paws kicking up dirt. Morrigan watches him, thinking of something unknown.
"I am glad that you agree," she says eventually. "Though perhaps I should not have doubted that you would noticed." Again, Savreen finds herself chuckling.
"And what exactly does that mean, Morrigan?"
It surprises Savreen slightly to see Morrigan consider her words, rather than just firing them off in immediate response. And yet, the witch takes her time, thinking on how to navigate Savreen's question before launching into it.
"It means that I was under the misapprehension that, because of your cousin's apparent fondness for the boy, you, too, would overlook some of the more inconsistent parts of his behavior. As well as his evident desire to play court jester instead of Grey Warden."
"Indeed, that is a great misapprehension, Morrigan. It is precisely because of Tali's 'fondness' for Alistair, as you put it, that I am more attentive to such 'inconsistencies.'"
"And what does a woman like yourself make of them? These 'inconsistencies."
"That there are painful memories of a sort waiting for him here." It is the truth—Savreen sees in Alistair's eyes something of the way she now thinks of Highever whenever he discusses the journey to Redcliffe. She remembers keenly the way he reacted to the mention of Arl Eamon's name. 'A good man,' Alistair had called him, eyes clouded. Savreen wasn't entirely sure of that—she had met him when she was far too young to judge a man's character properly, but there was always something it seemed to her that he did his best to hide. Perhaps it was benign—most little secrets were, she found, but honesty was not something she took lightly, and for all the praise others had sung of Arl Eamon Guerrin, Savreen thought the man lacking.
"'Twill be a moot point soon enough," Morrigan concedes, interrupting Savreen's musings. "For once we arrive, either he shall tell us what it is that ails him so greatly or he shall simply explode with it all. Of course, there is the third option, that he will be able to keep his secrets. Though that…" she glances over her shoulder, prompting Savreen to do the same. Behind the awkward little grouping of Ranjit, Leliana, and Sten, Alistair and Tali lag behind, seeming to whisper feverishly to one another. Savreen sighs and returns her gaze to the road in front of her, shaking her head. Morrigan continues, a little smug. "Though that seems quite unlikely, to my mind."
"Why do you dislike him so much, Morrigan?" Savreen asks. She's genuinely curious—Morrigan and Alistair's mutual disdain for each other is constant and instantaneous, but with little evident cause. To Savreen, Alistair is a bit silly, and she can't abide the way he couches his intelligence in feigned stupidity and incompetence, but overall, he's harmless—at least he has been so far. He's plenty nice beside, and genuine enough at most times. And when his jokes are funny, they're quite funny. There's nothing there that would make her hate him, like Morrigan seems to. But in response to Savreen's question, Morrigan huffs out a sigh, a grumble at the back of her throat.
"He is…such a man." The way Morrigan says it, the conviction, the irritation, the disgust, all wrapped up in that one word, make Savreen tilt her head back and laugh, a hand brought up to her stomach. Around them, the thinning trees absorb most of the sound, but a few birds startle and flock, taking to the air with snapping wings. Savreen quiets herself as quick as she can, minding the way Morrigan's irritation seems to grow as she laughs.
"I'm sorry, Morrigan," she says, clearing her throat. The witch rolls her eyes as she replies, mouth pouting ever so slightly.
"Oh yes, 'tis very funny that I should dislike him because he is a man. I see the humor very clearly."
"No, no—it's not that it's silly, it's just that I understand." Savreen still smiles, looking down ever so slightly at Morrigan. "He's so concerned with appearances and yet so concerned with not seeming concerned."
"Exactly! 'Tis most annoying, the way he play-acts at obliviousness. He would be much less insufferable if he just spoke his meaning plain and did not put on airs of incompetency." Again, Savreen wants to laugh.
"I had exactly the same thought," she says, a little surprised again for the second time in their conversation. Now it is Morrigan's turn to smile as she fights back a laugh. She seems to catch herself—not ready to laugh around Savreen just yet. That, too, Savreen understands.
"I think you're right, at the very least," she returns the topic of conversation to Morrigan's initial question, shooting one last glance back over her shoulder. Alistair and Tali are still whispering, and Savreen remembers just how upset her cousin had been in the Wilds when she teased her about Alistair. She will remember it longer than Tali knows. "We'll know soon enough."
Talvinder is slightly alarmed when Alistair limps back toward her, breaking her attention on the slowly passing landscape.
"Are you all r—" Hesitantly, he reaches out a hand toward her arm, then draws it back, scratching at his ear instead. He fidgets a bit with his armor, unclasping the blue gambeson at his throat as he stammers.
"Talvinder—uh, I mean Tali—look, Tali, can we talk for a moment?" She's bewildered now, but she stops walking to give Alistair a chance to speak, letting the others put space between them on their own. Slowly, Alistair starts walking again, a wary eye on the backs of the others in front of them. Tali follows his gaze, thinking for a moment that she sees Morrigan looking over her shoulder at them. Interestingly enough, Alistair also seems to no longer be limping when she looks back at him.
"Of course we can talk," she says, watching the way his eyes dart and linger around pieces of scenery, the way he purses his lips and chews the inside of his cheek, as he's been doing for some time now. "You've seemed especially uneasy since we set out yesterday morning," Tali admits it to the side of his jaw, where a faint glow of auburn stubble catches the light. She doesn't want to fully admit to his face that she notices him, for whatever reason. "Is something wrong?"
"I need to tell you something, but I, ah, should probably have told you earlier." Everything he says has a remarkable way of making Tali more concerned.
"Are you all right?"
"I—well. I—that is—" Again, his eyes dart forward, to the path ahead of them.
"It's something about Redcliffe?" That stops him, pulling his attention back to her, his brows furrowed in slight confusion.
"How did you know?" The question is a bit silly to Tali's mind, but she supposes that Alistair thinks himself better at dissembling than he really is.
"Alistair," she tries to say it gently—not ironically, not reproachfully, not with humor—and she worries that she fails, but still she keeps going. "You've hemmed and hawed since Arl Eamon's name was mentioned that first time at Flemeth's hut. You said he was a good man who you 'knew.' What's more, you know the way to Redcliffe well enough to guide us through shortcuts, and you almost let slip you've been there before, and not just with Duncan and the Wardens." Alistair remains silent for a moment, a faint rose of blush forming in his cheeks.
"Ah. Right." Tali worries again that she's embarrassed him, and she looks down at her feet as they walk, kicking slightly at dirt and grass and pebbles in the rough track worn beneath their feet.
"I didn't pry because I assumed that you would say something when you were ready," she tries to explain. She doesn't want him to feel like he's been watched, surveilled. That's been the farthest thing from her mind the past few days, but now, having said it all aloud, she feels strange, as though she's just admitted to something. But Alistair doesn't seem to mind. Instead, he breathes in deeply, steels himself, and speaks in an even more hushed whisper, one that Tali has to lean in to hear.
"Well. I am now. Ready, I mean. But I…well. Arl Eamon, you see, he…raised me." Tali frowns at the implications of the words and Alistair's hesitance to speak them.
"He raised you? Are you his son?" Alistair shakes his head, mouth set in a firm line.
"No, not his son. Although I am a bastard—just not his bastard. My father was his sister's husband." Tali absorbs the words, and they bob back to the surface of her mind, resisting her efforts. Confused, she looks away, then back at Alistair, then away again, and at last, back.
"His sister's husband—but Alistair, Rowan Guerrin—" He nods, an expression of displeasure plain on his face.
"Was married to King Maric. Who was my father." Again, the words repel any real sense of understanding.
"But—but—"As Talvinder stumbles, Alistair continues, twisting his hands around each other. Tali is conscious suddenly of Abarie whining next to her as a rabbit rustles in the underbrush somewhere. She is extremely aware of the way the ground crunches under her feet.
"My mother was a serving girl, I'm told. Maric took a liking to her, I suppose—I don't really know much about her; she died when I was born. Arl Eamon took me in and raised me. He was visiting his Denerim estate at the time, he always said. Maric needed me away from the capital, and who better to raise the king's bastard out of sight than his newly dead wife's brother?" There is such bitterness in his voice, bitterness that makes Talvinder remember that admixture of emotion in his eyes the night he pulled her away from Duncan, the night she cried in his arms until she was spent. Anger and jealousy, knowingly misplaced but still felt. It makes sense, all at once: the emotions, the way Loghain and Cailan spoke of him, the way Alistair's profile so clearly resembled Cailan at first glance.
"Alistair—" But he isn't done speaking when she interrupts. Instead, he follows the words as they roll out in front of him, seemingly possessed by a need to explain.
"I should have told you, I know. I would have told you, really, I would. I meant to. It's just…it never really meant anything to me beyond that I saw Cailan sometimes. I was…inconvenient, mostly. A possible threat to his rule. But also a contingency plan." He pauses, thinking, breathing. "I don't really know what he felt about me, honestly. But they kept me as secret as possible. I've never talked about it to anyone except Duncan." A profound expression of sadness and loss settles on Alistair's face, and it knocks the breath out of Tali's chest. Is that what he saw in her, when she had finished crying her tears and turned her face up to meet his gaze?
Gently, she reaches out and lays a hand lightly on his arm. She's vaguely aware of their movement jostling the position of her gloved palm, but the walking is secondary. Everything is secondary.
"Alistair…" She doesn't know what to say, and Alistair continues as she lapses into silence, mouth open.
"Everyone who does know has either resented me for it or coddled me. Even Duncan, I think, near the end. Loghain…Loghain hated me, I know that much. And Cailan never told me anything, never talked to me about it all. But I can imagine it. I—" he stutters and stumbles, rubbing a hand furiously over closed eyes before he finds the words. "I didn't want you to know, for as long as possible. I'm sorry." The words are genuine, that much is clear, made evident by the way that Alistair seems to be blinking back tears. Talvinder notices once more, though, that he has failed to move her hand away.
"Why?" It's the only question she can think to ask. Now that he's told her, it changes nothing in the way she thinks of him, save that she perhaps understands him a bit better.
Alistair looks back up to her eyes and takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He seems to be weighing what it is he wants to say, and Tali waits, patient.
"Is it…is it so inconceivable, so wrong, that I wanted you to form an opinion of me as the person—as the Warden that I am? Not the blood that—that made me?" His hand twitches, up toward hers, still resting on his arm, and it is something that she shouldn't notice, not when she's comforting him, listening to him, and yet she does notice. She notices everything he does.
"I understand." She is trying not to whisper, and yet still to evade the hearing of the others ahead of them. Finding her mouth dry, Tali licks her lips ever so slightly before chewing at them as she considers he next question "But why tell me at all, then?" Alistair searches her face—perhaps for anger, though he will find none—before speaking, a slight slouch of relief flowing across his shoulders.
"Because it was honestly starting to feel more like a lie than not. If I had kept it from you any longer, it—it wouldn't have been something I just didn't tell you. It would have been something I kept from you. And I…well I didn't want to walk into Redcliffe without you at least knowing the truth." Earnest, nervous, awaiting her rebuke, Alistair stares at Talvinder. His eyebrows peak unevenly in the center of his forehead, eyes wide beneath them, his mouth faintly open.
"Thank you," is all Tali says, and yet it's enough to startle him, make him flinch backwards and then take the time to understand her words. When he does, his confusion seems only to deepen.
"Thank you?"
"Yes, thank you. For trusting me. I…I assume you aren't quite ready to tell the others yet?" Finally, Alistair smiles, wide, slightly crooked. Her hand is still on his arm, though it's slid down, toward his wrist. Her fingers graze the edges of his palm, a hairsbreadth from his own. Hurriedly, Tali moves her hand at last, though this doesn't escape Alistair's notice. It is always about notice between the two of them. He clears his throat.
"Your ankle—"
"Would you like—" They speak at the same time, stumbling over each other. At Tali's side, Abarie lets out a little ruff and tilts her head, tongue lolling.
"You first," Alistair offers, and the blush on his ears makes Tali realize there are freckles even there, along the slowly healing notch he received at Ostagar.
"Is your ankle better?" she asks, the words a little flat-footed, and she grimaces internally. He looks at her, confused again, as she seems wont to make him, and Tali wonders if she's made an idiotic move. But then his face lights up in recognition and the embarrassment only doubles, sending the faint pink under his warm brown skin into the full-on color of wine stains on linen.
"Ah, that. I—well, that one was a lie." Bashful, Alistair scratches the back of his neck, avoiding Tali's gaze. "I just, ah, wanted to talk to you. But you were bringing up the rear today, unlike usual, so I…improvised." Despite herself, Tali can't help but smile.
"You're pretty bad at improvisation," she admits. Alistair takes it on the chin, though, seeming to be relieved more than anything that she's taken the whole conversation so well.
"I'll have you know I was the best in my whole barracks during charades night," he shoots back, and Tali giggles, a light, airy sound, like bubbles in a freshly uncorked bottle of sparkling Alyons brut. It feels strange, uncharacteristic and unfamiliar, but Alistair doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he smiles wider at the sound, eyebrows raising toward his auburn hairline.
His expression fades, however, as the landscape—which has slowly given way from forest to sparse woodland to grassy plain—falls away around them, revealing Redcliffe valley below, Lake Calenhad glimmering glassy blue in the distance. Below, down the valley road, Tali can see a windmill, turning lazily above a village, quiet and careworn. Just there, forking off from the road, she spots the head of a trellised bridge toward the ancient Redcliffe Castle, winding up and around and into the structure of sun-bleached and age worn Frostback granite.
"Well," Alistair says quietly, just to Tali, "I'm home."