A/N

Not mine, clearly.

I would really love any feedback anyone has. I have tough skin and anything that's even remotely constructive would be most welcome.

The story takes place during the events of Origins, but I promise not to simply re-tell the story, only worse. I write some moments that I've imagined, embellish what needs embellishing, and try to tell another aspect of the Dalish story. I try to strike a balance between character and plot. The M rating starts in chapter two. Around chapter six, it gets slightly AUy. (Yes, that's a word.) I have ten chapters now and plans for at least a few more. We'll see after that.

As we begin, the party has completed "The Arl of Redcliffe" and "Broken Circle."

Thanks for spending some of your time with me today.

This is Better: A Brief Reprieve

Loren gasped into the black of her tent, the unease of her dream still holding her tight. The man in her dream had been undeniably Tamlen; his hair falling around her face, soft on the skin of her shaved head. Her fingers had traced the tattoos of his god, Grace, and his bow-calloused fingers traced Strength on her high forehead. The sex had been indistinct – the ache of longing rather than actual stimulation. Loren had been with men, but not Tamlen. They had had the ability to spend days together in silence. Not the terse silence of Sten's tightly suppressed disapproval, but the reserve of two people who didn't want to complicate a very satisfying working relationship. Loren could tell which weapon Tamlen had been holding, or if his ankle was hurting him, just by the sound of his step, but she could never have said what was he was thinking about after they'd broke camp for the day. She had liked it that way.

She laid back down on the thin human bedroll they'd picked up months ago, in Lothering. It wasn't warm enough, and the combination of chill and disquiet made her restless. Loren pulled the fabric of the tent's opening to the side. It was almost her watch anyways, and she could hear Leliana humming by the fire to keep herself awake.

"It is like with Cabel, yes?" Leliana said, happily petting the mabari's broad head, after Loren had tried to describe her unease. "He is always connected to you, but what does he think?" Leliana turned the dog's face towards her own. "We will never know." The dog licked her enthusiastically in the mouth, and Leliana spluttered and pushed him away.

"Elves aren't dogs," Loren said, for the second time, lifting a corner of her mouth to take the sting out of her correction. Leliana wasn't a bad human; in fact, Loren had found herself liking the bard very much. Maybe it was because Leliana had been so happy to do most of the talking when they'd first met. "Dreaming of Tamlen that way felt wrong. Like dreaming of your father."

"You miss your people, of course," Leliana explained. "This is the reason for your dream, and nothing more."

Loren said nothing, pushing a stick further into the bonfire. Earlier in the week, she had decided they were going to skip past the Brecilian Forest, despite how closely they would be passing to it. "If Genetivi's in danger – and I am sure he is – we have no time to waste," she'd said to Alistair, who'd nodded curtly and walked away without comment. He was still smarting over Isolde, obviously.

But honestly, who was Loren to have understood that Alistair would have been so upset by the death of the woman who should have loved him like family, but had denied him space even in the stables? No one but Jowan had volunteered a solution, including Alistair, who'd been standing right there. Did he really think that she, an elf with no experience of humans or human magic, was supposed to divine that the Circle could have performed the same spell? The woman had volunteered to die for her son and for her appalling lack of judgement, which did not seem like an unreasonable arrangement. Alistair, who she was supposed to be able to count on, had hardly explained what was so unpalatable about blood magic. He was an open, if incomplete, book on the subject of Grey Wardens, but bizarrely opaque about apostates, blood mages and templars. The terms signified nothing to Loren; she didn't even know how to ask for details. It'd be like him asking about aravels and her starting with how to steer them. Thank gods for Leliana, who'd stepped in to explain.

"We will stop by the forest after we find the ashes, no? You will see that your dream will stop then."

Loren did not miss her people. Almost immediately after her decision to bypass the forest, she'd agreed to Morrigan's request. She missed living with the Clan, sometimes: the Halla, and hunting with Tamlen, and the thick pastes of Dalish food. She definitely missed not having to have all her armour adjusted so drastically, or the uncomfortable gaps and pressures that couldn't be hammered to her shape. She missed these comforts, but she did not miss her people. No one had ever treated her like Alistair's uncle and Isolde had treated him, like Marjolane had treated Leliana, or even like Flemeth had treated Morrigan. The cruelty of humans had shocked her. Nor was Loren's lack of parents unusual. There were other orphans in the Clan, as well as the children of unbonded parents. There were not so many elves left that anyone was thrown away – none of these ridiculous vows of chastity or ominous infertile orders. Her mother had given birth, then left. Loren was bigger than almost all the other women, bigger than many of the elven men. Her ears were smaller than everyone else's, despite her shaved head making them look longer than they were. The offspring of elves and humans were human, she knew, so she was her father's daughter, not the daughter of her mother's attackers. Still, her mother had left.

Ashalle had laughed off Loren's concerns when, at fourteen, she'd confessed. "You're elven, my love. Your mother had been broken by what happened to her, what happened to your father. She was worried, of course, when she realized she was pregnant after years of trying, after the attack. She was so happy when she saw you; she glowed, but I think that in the end, even you were not enough to replace your father, or to forget. She didn't abandon you. Elves are never abandoned. Stop looking for a way to be different. You belong here."

Loren had not stopped looking, and eventually she became as other as she'd felt herself to be. Her brain fogged. Had she done it to herself? She remembered the inner leaping when Duncan had made his suggestion. Leaving Denerim, she'd tried to imagine herself walking into the Dalish camp in her ill-fitting human armour. She needed new armour. Her Chasind Maul would be fine; Chasind were not Fereldan, not Tevinter. The only acceptable humans were outcasts, like the elves and like Duncan. Though, Duncan's infertility may have had something to do with his acceptability. He couldn't have bred them out if he'd wanted to. Loren wondered if her Keeper had known.

Leliana touched Loren's arm lightly. "I hope you are right," Loren said to the tired bard, who smiled, squeezed her arm, and bade Loren goodnight, leaving her to her watch and her thoughts. Loren watched her go. Why did she like Leliana so much? Was it because it was so unlikely? She got along with Alistair, her fellow Grey Warden, but even before Isolde, there hadn't been the same easiness between them that there was between her and Leliana. She should have gotten along with the other elf, Zevran, but his lewdness and enthusiastic sexuality grated on her. Were all city elves like him? Dalish treated the whole subject with a bit more respect, even if they didn't have the strict monogamy of humans. Or, Loren thought, the strict monogamy that they pretended to practice.

Leliana, though. What would an almost-bald Dalish warrior have in common with an Orlesian bard, where slavery was still legal and birds were included in hairstyles? It wasn't sexual – Loren had made that explicit when Leliana's lack of preference had become clear to her. It was just that there was no pressure; they had so little in common that Loren had nothing to lose by risking friendship. As soon as she thought this, she knew it was true, and the fog in her head cleared a little.

This was better; she couldn't hear the assassin's nattering from here. Loren stretched her now-bare toes over the mossy rock, greaves and boots lying a few feet away. Her eyes closed and her chin tilted upward. The leaves rustled like the river – fast and dark and not so far away – and Loren's arms pushed away from her body, slightly, unconsciously. She was aware of the branches streaking randomly over the sky's angry blue and the roots twisting malevolently between the rocks and under the moss. From far away, a bird twittered fast and loud. This was much better.

Behind her, from the direction of camp, a twig snapped. Loren didn't move, but she slid her eyelids up a fraction, measuring the exact distance to and angle of her maul, leaning against a nearby trunk. She could grab it and swing in the same motion, if she needed to. It would be a one-handed swing until the end of its arc, but it would still push away whoever it was. From the same direction, there was the screech of metal against rock and a man's voice called out, wordless and startled. Alistair was always running into trees; it was like he thought he was a little smaller than he was. His chainmail was tree scraped on almost every side, despite the fact that the road was wide enough for a cart. Loren's shoulders rose and her arms pressed closer to her ribs. Forest forgotten, she reached out for her boots and dragged them closer, sitting on a rock to strap them to her legs.

Alistair half-stumbled into Loren's small clearing. "Right, here you are. Sorry. I was just checking, um, wanting to let you know Zevran's got dinner ready," he said, flushing when he saw her leg splayed out, pushing up the skirt of mail. Loren kept her hands on her buckles; he kept his eyes on her throat. The man was like toffee, she thought: too sweet and too sticky.

"Has he stopped pestering Morrigan yet?"

"Ah, no. Not from my seat – it looked like no."

Loren ignored the double negative. "She looked ready to freeze him yesterday. I'm tempted to tell her that she can go ahead, really."

"It bothers you?"

"I don't like that one of our party is driving the other to murder, no." Alistair just raised an eyebrow at her, wisely choosing to not resurrect that particular argument. "And it's annoying," Loren added, surprising herself with blitheness. Loren was keenly aware of the fact that the addition of Zevran two days ago had already caused more conflict than any other party member, and just because he saw himself as Antivan rather than elven didn't mean that's what everyone else saw. Loren regretted letting him accompany them just on the basis of the amount of chatter that streamed steadily from his corner of camp. He made even Alistair and Leliana look reserved. None of the humans could hold their tongues, Loren reflected. Even Morrigan needled Alistair needlessly. Loren didn't really blame them; humans, even humans who had lived their lives in the Wilds, just didn't seem capable of silence. She thought, briefly, of Tamlen and her heart did a funny little squeeze, though she refused to let it show. Greaves attached, Loren stood and started back to camp.

"Loren?"

"Yes?" She slowed, but didn't stop, so Alistair had to rush to catch up. He walked behind her even when the path was wide enough for them both and it annoyed her. What would he have done if Duncan had chosen the mage Neria to accompany Alistair to the Tower and he'd been here with her? Forced her onto the front lines? Probably, she thought grimly. He caught her upper arm and let it go again, very quickly. Loren stopped and turned to face him.

"Look, I want to apologize." It came out very fast.

"For?"

"For what I said after Redcliffe. It hadn't really occurred to me that you wouldn't know that the Circle could have helped and you have every right to expect me to volunteer that kind of information." This sounded very rehearsed and Loren thought she heard the bard behind it.

Amused, Loren raised an eyebrow, "Did Leliana tell you to say that?"

Alistair blinked. "No. No, she . . . helped me understand why you made that choice. I was a bit lost in my own, well, in my own grief and I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

Gratitude and respect for both Alistair's honesty and Leliana's intercession flashed in Loren. "Apology accepted. I understand now about templars." Loren raised a hand, palm out towards him to signify the passing of the issue. The human just looked at her blankly, so she had to take his forearm in her hand and press his limp palm flat to hers. She thought, as she dropped both their arms, that the gesture had not relieved any tension. She turned back to camp and missed Alistair's expression of disappointment.