My Warden (COMPLETED)

Memorial

9:44 Skyhold

Peaceful. Someone went to an awful lot of trouble to make this green section away from the swords, the politics, the piles of horse shit, and the manure from their mounts peaceful. Alistair hadn't been to a lot of gardens in his time. Sure, there were the ones in whatever palace Celene pretended to have a conversation with him in. Referring to herself in the plural gave him a headache. He kept having to pinch himself to keep from asking if there was another empress hiding under her dress.

Those were manicured within an inch of their life. If a blade of grass dared to rise above a half an inch, chevaliers would swoop down from the rafters and slice it back in line while calling for its families dishonor. Here there was a rhythm to the plants but no pattern, if that made any sense. It pulsed with a gentle kneading across the brain, not picturesque or orderly but calming and peaceful. He would have enjoyed spending time in Skyhold's garden if it weren't for the shrine near the gazebo.

Bending down, Alistair ran his fingers across the tiny blue flowers vining up the plaque. Brass, very elegant and recently shined up too. It was screwed in below a tasteful relief of a faceless woman with droopy sleeves that'd catch in the wind if ever used in a fight as she squared off against a nameless foe. The relief felt very generic save the pouf of hair around the head. That was her two-hundred and ten percent. She would wind it up in braids or those rows along the side of the head for battle, but when her life took a breath Lanny'd let it out. He'd spot the ebony hair bursting over the back and sides of the chair while she was deep into a book from across the room. A pain stirred in his soul and he bit back on the guilty fear that he'd never see it again. No, the shrine was lovely all save the damn plaque.

"I was informed the king of Ferelden was in Skyhold, but could scarcely believe it."

He didn't turn around to face the owner of that sweet Orlesian accent, he didn't have to. "Never expected you'd to be here either. Or are you going over the books and inspecting the furnishings before you take over?" Now he turned back to find Divine Victoria standing behind him, only her porcelain face visible in that sea of hat most holy. "Check the doorknobs. There's a real market for used screws, so people'll nick half out of every faceplate and no one's the wiser."

Leliana blinked from his suggestion, then she turned back to her two guards and waved them off. They grumbled, neither of them happy about leaving their Divine in the presence of what had to be a mad man raving about doorknobs, but they weren't about to disobey either.

Alistair saluted to them then turned back to the shrine. He ran his finger over the plaque once more, the name etched deep in a solid script. "Solona Amell," he said. There was some more about her being the Hero and sacrificing herself for the world, but that wasn't the part that concerned him.

"It was her given name," Leliana said.

Staggering to his knees, which felt more like work with every passing year, Alistair rose to eye up the Spymaster turned Most Holy. "She hated it, which you knew."

"Perhaps..." Despite being in the pristine white robes of the chantry, the Divine plummeted her own knee into the grass and dropped a few white flowers before the shrine. As she turned them in place, he recognized the petals as andraste's grace. "Perhaps I was hoping it would give cause." Leliana leaned back to rise, with Alistair offering his hand to steady her. "Something to encourage her to...it is foolish. And you have not answered my question."

"I had business with someone here, your Most Hatness," he said sliding back on his heels.

Leliana's crystal eyes cut through him like he was made of cheese, which given his diet was a distinct possibility. "The Inquisitor is not in the... mood to accept visitors at this time."