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He's nervous, fidgeting with his hair, running a hand through it far too many times, and grimacing at the length that it's grown. For most it was a relatively imperceptible difference, especially given how much he wears a helmet, but for Alistair, it was becoming an issue.
To be fair, it wasn't just a matter of vanity or preference– not that there was anything wrong with that. Rather, it was simply more practical for the prospective Templar to keep it cut short. Every year there always seemed to be at least two stories of someone running around with their hair ablaze; the fewer strands to catch fire (or lightning), the better.
Still, he won't deny the less pragmatic reason, the lesser known rationale: it helps distance him from his blood. His face betrays the secret he's most desperate to keep.
He vaguely remembers the portraits of the King that were scattered around Arl Eamon's, but those at the Chantry were sharp in his memory. At first it was just Maric, but upon Cailan's coronation, Alistair met another visage he wanted to avoid. They were like bizarre scrying mirrors, cutting deep with their depiction of certainty and confidence that would always be just beyond his reach. They taunted him by reflecting the strength of his jaw, the breadth of his chin, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose– he was a Theirin through and through, but never here or there. If he could do anything to stray further from this phantom family, he would.
At least his coloring set him apart, if only just a little bit. Somehow Maric kept enough sense to bed a woman who didn't resemble Queen Rowan completely.
He took a blade to his hair not long after he arrived at the Chantry. As expected, the result was a tragic mess, but there was a sister kind enough to take pity on him and turn it into something presentable. To save them both the trouble in the future, he learned how to maintain it himself.
However, despite all those years of his lineage hiding in plain sight, he still worried about exposure, even though he knows he must be forthcoming now. Redcliffe looms up ahead, barely a few days away. The truth was going to come out sooner than later and Tabris deserved to hear it from him.
She finds him sitting on a large rock away from camp with his small shaving mirror, mulling over what he needs to say, cringing mostly at what's in his head, but a little at what's in the mirror. Walking in front of him, she offers without pretense, "If it's really a bother, I could cut it for you." As affable as ever, her words smooth and easy.
Abashed, he hangs his head. "Have I been that obvious?"
"Give me some credit. I am supposed to be a keen rogue, remember? But... yes, a little bit."
Turning his eyes back to her, he catches the way the corners of her mouth turn upward.
"Do you find this funny? This is a perfect time to remind you that Morrigan's a bad influence. See? I don't know if I can trust you now." He tries his best to keep a serious face, but it breaks the second she tilts her head and looks askance at him.
Still standing, she lifts her hand towards him and waits for his permission. He doesn't stop her and so she moves forward, slowly, running a bare hand through his coiffure a few times, testing it. She finally makes contact on the last run through, a gentle scrape across his scalp, a striking touch of tenderness from her usual ferocity. They did just kill a Pride Demon and several abominations a few days ago.
She shakes him out of his reverie when she rests her hand upon his shoulder. Her smile is as warm and relieving as her actions. "I promise you, I know what I'm doing. My cousin Soris pretty much keeps his hair the same way– it's no trouble. Let me help you," she says.
It's been a while since he's heard that.
Conceding to the comfort, he nods and hands her his shears. He notes her surprise and hastily explains, "I can do it myself, it's just easier when I can see the whole thing." Holding up the tiny mirror he quips, "if only I were this small."
Snatching it away, she chuckles before murmuring, "That would be a pity."
Oh?
She uncorks a waterskin and motions for him to bend his head. Leaning forward, he tilts it down, his eyes following the length of her legs.
The chill of the water keeps his thoughts from wandering. He steels his gaze onto her boots and focuses on the pattern, tracing the curves of the vines, counting the leaves, admiring the symmetry between the two of them. They're carefully handcrafted, with intention in every attention to detail: the leather at the throat is thicker for better protection of the shins, while the cuffs are more supple, softer against the skin. Despite everything they've been through, they should be in a state of disrepair, however, there's not a stray stitch in sight and most of the scuff marks have been carefully polished and buffed away. The Templars could learn a thing or two from her about dedicated upkeep.
A few drops of water fall. Most roll off where the polish still shines brightly, but a few pierce through, raining down dark speckles across her feet. He finds himself breathing out an apology.
"For what?"
Head still cradled in her hands, he gives a small shake, further dappling the ground. "Nothing. It's just... your boots. Did you get them in Denerim?"
Instead of replying immediately, she drips a bit more water on him, her silence and his regret both growing. He's halfway through conceiving a deflective joke when she finally responds.
"My mother made them for me."
He recognizes that tone and he won't push further. Not today. "They're beautiful."
She works the water through quickly, her fingertips applying a pleasant pressure. "Almost done," she says with a hint of an apology.
He smiles even though she can't see it. "You forget I spent years bowing my head in praise of Andraste. Alright, fine, it was mostly as punishment. You don't need to rush."
She's done nonetheless. He leans back and sits up straight while she grabs a blanket. She drapes it around him, tying two ends together around the back of his neck before smoothing it over his shoulders.
She tests the shears in her hand. "Ready?"
Working quickly, her movements prove to be as well-versed as she promised. There's a tiny tug here and there as she assesses the length, never hesitating too long before she snips. He keeps his eyes closed for most of it, only opening them when she steps back to examine her progress. He's just in time to catch the reassuring looks she's feeding him.
After a particularly long pause, she finally announces that she's finished.
However, she has yet to remove the impromptu cape and instead of undoing the knot, he watches as her expression darkens. Her brow furrows but when bites her lip, dread falls over him. She's kept his mirror, so the only confirmation he's left with is touch.
It doesn't feel any different than it should, but Maker, the look on her face...
Shrugging off her cringe as best he can, he insists with resignation, "Don't worry about it, it'll grow back. I'm usually wearing a helmet anyway so... I really do appreciate–"
His pardon is interrupted by a hearty laugh that can no longer be contained. She places the mirror back into his hands as she moves behind him.
It looks fine. It's perfect, actually.
He finds her beaming at him in the mirror. "See? Good as new. Still handsome. Still Alistair."