Warning: This fic contains references/implications made towards coerced sexual activity/sexual activity under duress.

Author's Note: Title from "Hero" by Regina Spektor.

In the dim light of Alistair's room, Naomi stripped her armor and put it away. She left her clothes out for the laundry. She donned a dressing gown from the bureau and sat in front of the vanity to take down her hair. Each movement was a ritual of her own to ward against the one she did not wish to contemplate.

Still, she could not help but to think of Alistair—of pressing her mouth to that spot just below his right ear that made him shiver then groan, and how he smelled of steel and the crisp, electric afterburn of his templar talents. She could not help but to relive scores of hours from the past months: sneaking away from camp under cover of darkness like guilty children, at first; retiring to her tent, later, when Alistair felt bolder; scattered nights at shady inns from Redcliffe to Orzammar that felt luxurious; and nights in the oversized guest rooms at the Arl's estate in Denerim that actually were.

She learned his heart and his mind, his body, his mouth, and the touch of his hands. It could be thought unfair, as such, that on the eve of their greatest challenge she was left with nothing but memories of trysts past to keep her warm. But Naomi had few illusions that anything in life was ever required to be fair. It was not; it had never been. So she took her true comfort from the fact that this would ensure that, should they protect each other in battle as they always did, neither she or Alistair would have to fall in victory. Any later consequences, they could face better together than one of them alone; she was resolute. A night for a lifetime, even ones abbreviated as theirs, was not so difficult a choice to make, and Naomi refused to let it be a difficult choice to endure.

She'd just picked up the end of one long braid to take it out when the door swung open. She knew from experience that it was too soon to be Alistair, though she could not quell an errant hope. Hope was replaced with confusion when she stood to see that it was Morrigan, arms crossed as she stepped into the room. The other woman was fully clothed, though Naomi had no idea whether it was "still" or "again."

"Did something go wrong with the ritual?" Naomi asked immediately. "Your magic- do you require more time or-"

Morrigan's lips pursed in annoyance before she raised a hand to cut Naomi off.

"My preparations are ready," she said with exacting emphasis. "Your beloved fool...is not."

"What are you-"

"Judging from the disgusting sounds that I have heard emanating from your tents—and I shudder to think how 'tis beared by those camping in closer proximity—I did not think that I should have to explain the mechanics to you." Morrigan tilted her head, leveled a penetrating look at Naomi and it clicked into place.

"Oh," Naomi said and found herself at a complete loss for how to feel.

"I ask that you speak with the buffoon, yet again, if indeed you wish this to work as you claim." The tone was disdainful and disinterested like always, but watching the other woman slowly pace the room, Naomi wondered after Morrigan's pride, whether the witch was above such things as vanity like she pretended. Of course, even if she was not, Alistair's feelings about the matter and her were far from secret and so could not have been surprising. Her agitation could just as easily, and more likely, be owed to Morrigan's own reasons for wanting the ritual completed.

"Do take your time," Morrigan said when Naomi, lost in the confused surreality of the moment, still had not moved. "I am sure that if we ask very nicely the archdemon will be perfectly willing to wait to raze this country to the ground until after Alistair has overcome his dysfunction."

"Perhaps you'll be a dear and draft him a letter while I'm gone, then," Naomi responded with a smile that didn't reach her eyes before finally proceeding out into the hall.

When she entered the bedroom that was once to be hers, she paused, taken aback, before she could get her feet moving again. Alistair sat in the bed, unruly strawberry blond hair painted with lines of gold by the flickering candlelight, sheet pulled up around his waist. The knowledge that it was not her for whom he waited burned briefly in her chest, a swift, hot flame that numbed before the sting.

He saw her and smiled his sad smile, the one that he tried to pretend was self-deprecating instead of just melancholy.

"I would say that now is just about the time I'd blink my eyes and find myself naked in front of the entire Chantry, but that couldn't possibly be more horrifying than anything about this night."

"Quite so," she ageed, voice even. "From everything that I've seen—and I have seen everything—horrifying is certainly not the word I would employ."

Her steps were light and she lowered herself gingerly to the bed, sitting on the edge and looking down at him. It felt, perversely, as though she had come to tuck him in. They were both silent. For a handful of heartbeats it was too painful, too ridiculous, too simply unpleasant to jest or even speak.

"Morrigan is a very beautiful woman," Naomi finally said, tentative, like an offering.

"And Zevran's a very beautiful man. Are you in a hurry to go rut him in case we need a part-Antivan assassin baby to defeat the archdemon as well?" he snapped.

She turned her head to stare at the stone wall, counting the cracks. The bedding rustled next to her and his large hand came to rest warm on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said softly and she didn't have to see him to know the look in his eyes, the hangdog expression that she found it humiliatingly impossible to refuse anything. "I- That was- I know this must be hard for you."

"Not as hard as it is for you," she demurred, facing him again, unwilling to chance a direct denial. They would both recognize it as the lie that it was.

"Actually," Alistair said, corners of his mouth twitching. "At the moment, it's not very hard at all, is it?"

The tension could not fade, but it receded. She laughed first; it bubbled up from her chest and his low chuckle joined it, mingling in the air. Her shoulders shook and Naomi leaned towards him and he towards her in their mirth that edged on hysteria. They stopped just shy of their foreheads touching.

"I will hand it to you, Alistair," Naomi said as her eyes were beginning to water. "This is certainly a new problem. Usually you have quite the opposite one."

"A problem, you say? Would you like to lodge a complaint, my lady?" he asked.

"What makes you think I haven't already?" she responded, her fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. "Just not to you."

He winced in an exaggerrated fashion, but the reddened face and ears were genuine. His voice dropped to a rasp.

"You are very mean to me."

She kissed him, a firm dry press, and it seemed to draw the last vestiges of humor from their tones. When Alistair spoke again, it was still low, but cracking with emotion.

"We're not- Am I-" He drew a deep breath full of resignation. "Is this really going to happen?"

Naomi nodded, unable to actually say it again. It was impossible enough the first time. The next kiss was softer and his lips parted just as she drew back. He followed and slanted his mouth over hers. He slid his tongue along her bottom lip, bidding entrance, and she let him with a sigh. His arm raised to circle her waist as the kiss deepened and he moaned at the swift deft flicks of her tongue, then pulled her flush against him. When he began to insinuate his hand inside her dressing gown, Naomi found the presence of mind to pull away.

"Lie back," she commanded. He obeyed even though her voice broke—reclined and look up at her, his skin flushed and his lips swollen. He was panting and she watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest, let her eyes slide briefly to where the sheet had slipped down just a bit at his waist, noted the obvious beginnings of tumescence.

Naomi leaned over him, staring at his face, into his eyes and knew that he could see her resolve.

"This has to work," she said before pressing a featherlight kiss to his mouth. He nodded ever so slightly and said nothing more as she continued to press soft, teasing kisses to his face. She smoothed her hands along his chest and flat stomach, tracing her fingers lightly across his skin, mapping every scar and the curve of each muscle. She darted her tongue out at his mouth, but pulled back before he could properly latch onto her.

Naomi could feel his heart beating furiously under her hand and sat up to watch the blush trailing across his chest, clear down to his navel. She slid her hand under the covers then and wrapped it around his hardening length. Her reward was a sharp intake of breath. She pulled at him the way she knew he liked, with firm slow strokes, and she watched as his eyes rolled back. When she sped up slightly, however, he took her by surprise; his hand shot up to clutch the nape of her neck and pulled her down, crushing his mouth to hers, kissing her hungrily. She let him for just long enough for him to begin trying to worry his fingers into her hair—he always liked it best when it was loose, able to cascade down over him as she writhed above him. Then she extricated herself expertly from his grasp, though not releasing her own on his member.

"Put your hands down," she whispered. He hesitated, jaw tightening, then did so, clenching at the bedding so hard his knuckles began to go white.

Naomi shifted positions, getting her knees under her and kneeling beside him on the bed, so that he was spread out before her. She kissed his mouth again, lightly, then his chin, his cheeks, his nose, his brow.

"Close your eyes," she said. "Close your eyes and don't open them."

When he did, she kissed his eyelids, then worked her way down—drifting kisses across his jaw, his chest, traced a path around his navel with her tongue. Her hand still stroked him rhythmically and she considered taking him into her mouth. However, she had only done so a handful of times and he still had very little resistance to that particular ministration. Instead she returned to his face, biting back a whimper of her own as his hips jerked suddenly, desperately. She ignored the throbbing at the apex of her own thighs.

His eyelashes fluttered and she whispered her command into his mouth again, like a Chant.

"Close your eyes. Close your eyes."

He moaned, a longing sound, and she matched it with a needy one of her own, toes curling as she clenched her legs together. When she pulled away again, running the fingers of her free hand through his hair, Morrigan was standing in the doorway.

Morrigan did not speak, thank the Maker, and Naomi could not parse the implacable look on her face: surprise or approval or the revulsion she always claimed. Perhaps all; perhaps none.

Time stretched taut like the aching knot in her core and in that suspended moment, Naomi wanted nothing more than to sling her leg across Alistair's hips, sink down onto him, and end it all. Then time compressed again and she remembered herself beyond the liquid heat flowing languidly through her body and the tangle of emotions making her heart beat like a hammer. They all did what was necessary and Naomi Cousland had nothing to prove.

One lazy stroke, then one more, and she released him. His expulsion of breath was soft on her face. She kissed his eyelids and his waiting mouth again. Her lips brushed his ear as she commanded one last time: "Keep them closed," and she could feel him shiver.

Naomi withdrew, from Alistair, from the bed, from the room—brushing past Morrigan without looking at her. The stones of the floor were cold under her feet and only her training prevented the sound of her soles slapping against them as she nearly ran for Alistair's room.

She let her dressing gown drift to the floor and buried herself under the blankets, soft against her bare skin, and turned her face into the pillow. Neither smelled like Alistair for he'd yet the chance to sleep on them.

Her wanting body felt alien as well after all these months. Her hands were small and her fingers strange.

She closed her eyes too.

Dawn had not come when she woke to the tapers all burned down. She was not alone.

Naomi turned her face into Alistair's shoulder in the darkness and ran a sleepy hand through his still damp hair. He smelled as unfamiliar as the bed did when she first lay in it, like the soap so common in Redcliffe Castle: strong lye, with a hint of thyme that could be blamed on no one but Lady Isolde. When she looked up she could see the whites of his eyes. She traced his furrowed brow with her fingertips and felt his niggling need for absolution.

She leaned her face forward just enough to kiss him, the barest brush of her lips against his—all she could offer in the way of benediction and only for his sake. More would require actually believing that she had been transgressed against and she knew he was as satisfied with this offering as he ever would be with any other. When she wrapped her arm around his waist, he turned into her embrace. His face found his way to her neck and hers to his. Naomi still could not smell him, just him, beneath the scented oil and rigorous clean, but it wasn't unbearable.

It would all fade soon enough.