Winter hadn't arrived yet, but one wouldn't know that from being in the Frostbacks in early Firstfall. Alistair shivered as he clambered out of his bedroll and pulled on his gear. He wished they could ignore the risks and keep the campfire going throughout the night, and he hated that he didn't need to get up now. He was only doing it so he could ask a question he wasn't comfortable asking while the others were awake and able to eavesdrop. Perhaps he could have waited until they got to an inn somewhere, but as he saw it, the longer he delayed, the sillier it became to ask. Better now than never.
He emerged from his tent, bracing himself against the cold air and thanking the Maker that the sky was still clear. Apart from a slight breeze that rustled the leaves in the trees and the cloth of the tents, the night was silent. He looked around the camp for his fellow Warden. On the one side was Shale, glowing purple and blue with her crystals; his eyes drifted to the other, and there he saw her, sitting next to a tree that marked the boundary of the camp.
He approached her with a quiet, "Hey." She turned around, and if he had startled her, she did not show it, instead only smiling at him and watching him come closer.
"Hello, Alistair," she said, also quiet. She soon followed that up, as Alistair had expected, with a "What are you doing out here? It's not your turn yet. Unless you're going off to relieve yourself…"
Alistair returned her smile and, when he was level with her, sat next to her. They were now close enough for him to no longer feel any embarrassment at sitting beside her without first asking if she craved the company. "No, I just wanted to talk. Unless this is a bad time?"
She chuckled and turned her gaze back to whatever she'd been staring at before he interrupted. "If it were, I daresay we'd be up and fighting darkspawn now," she said, and Alistair conceded the point with a soft chuckle of his own. "It's been quiet enough. I wouldn't mind the company. But why ask me now? Why not later, when we're somewhere warmer?"
Alistair looked away, feeling his cheeks burning. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I just… wanted to wait until we were alone. I didn't think you'd, um, like me asking while the others were around…" His blush intensified, the more so when he heard her faint giggle.
"Another private talk? I'm game," she said, and she at once shifted herself over until their shoulders were rubbing against each other. She found his hand and put her own on top, then laced their fingers together; Alistair watched her do so and smiled. He was still marvelling at the texture of her palm—soft as silk even despite the years she'd spent practising with her longbow. Part of him wondered if he would ever stop. "What's on your mind?" she added.
"I was wondering more what was on your mind," he admitted. "Are you… all right?"
It did not surprise him when a frown appeared on her face, creasing her brow. She looked at him, the faintest wisp of puzzlement in her features. (It was always that, wasn't it? The faintest wisp? She wasn't in the habit of showing even a hint of the true depth of her fear or anger or grief or anything of that sort. It often made him wonder how much he knew of her, and sometimes whether there was something wrong with her.) "I am," she said, sounding uncertain but—he assumed—only because of her confusion. "Why do you ask? If you're referring to something, I'm not sure what."
Right. Alistair supposed he could have done a better job specifying what he meant. "I meant with what happened in the Deep Roads," he said, and, her expression cleared. "Not that I was there, but Zevran and Wynne said it was… quite the experience. I just was wondering…"
"You mean with Branka? The broodmother?" she said, and Alistair nodded. Her expression turned thoughtful, and then she looked away. There was a brief silence, and then she said, "I appreciate your concern, Alistair, but I'm fine. It's done, and I'm glad for it."
Alistair paused, not sure how to press the point. He supposed he understood what she was saying, but what she had seen must have had more of an effect on her than that. It had to have done. She always did such a good job of acting like she was unaffected by everything, but that did not mean she was. It could not mean that. "Aren't you… I don't know… disgusted? Frightened? Maker knows I would have been if I'd been down there…"
"What happened was disgusting, no denying that," she said. "That Branka could do what she did to the people who trusted her with their lives in the name of such a goal as hers… well. I was glad to get rid of her, even despite how it made Oghren feel. And the broodmother… that was nauseating. I don't think I've ever seen something so repulsive. But we killed it. It was an act of mercy. Others may be out there, but that one's dead. It's done. No need to dwell." Her voice remained soft and almost monotonous throughout, and Alistair couldn't help but feel a shiver run up his spine.
"Is that it?" he said, and his tone was flat and disbelieving. "I'd have thought you would have been…"
She looked back at him and smiled a wry smile. "Traumatised? Would have curled up into a ball and wept, perhaps vomited and let it dribble down my chin? You know that's not my style, Alistair. It was difficult, yes, but I've handled it already. Thinking about the fact we succeeded and put a stop to that madness helps a great deal."
He considered. "I suppose," he said after a moment's pause. He still found it strange that she was showing no sign of being affected by what she had seen. Perhaps if he turned the conversation towards the implications… "What about… you know. About the Calling?"
"That's simple enough," she said, almost interrupting him, she responded so fast. "It's not for thirty years, so I won't worry about it now. And when it comes, I intend to fight until I die. If the darkspawn should get a hold of me and try to drag me off, I'll have a knife. Cutting my throat or putting it in my heart will be easy. No need to worry."
Alistair blinked and stared at her. She was still so tranquil, even now. It was beyond what he could comprehend. "How can you handle this with such calm, such ease?" he all but demanded. "Does nothing bother you?"
But she still only smiled at him. "You are talking to the woman who took all of ten seconds to come to terms with the concept of the Calling," she reminded him. Her tone was light, almost joking. "To the woman who watched most of her family die but was more or less at peace with their deaths a mere six months later. Be honest, Alistair, have you ever seen me react much at all to any of the things we've encountered? Is it so surprising I had no trouble coming to terms with this as well?"
Alistair shook his head, and whether it was in agreement or continued disbelief or both, he couldn't be sure. "I just find it hard to imagine that you're this fine with everything," he said. "I can't believe it can be as easy as you make it appear."
"You mean, do I still grapple with inner turmoil?" He nodded, embarrassed, and she shot him a vague smile and looked away again. There was another silence, longer now, and Alistair watched her as she pondered her answer. At least, he supposed that she was pondering her answer; it was close to impossible to tell when she so rarely showed what she felt. After a while, she spoke again, slow and almost hesitant. "My inner turmoil is mine to keep," she said, and he relaxed, just a little. That, at least, was confirmation it existed. "I process it, handle it, on my own, in my time, on my own terms. I won't expose it to others, not at a time such as this."
"Not to anyone at all?" he asked, frowning. "You know you don't have to carry this alone."
She just kept smiling that vague, unfocused smile. "Well, I share some of it with Fergus," she said. "But that goes without saying. He's my brother and after all that's happened, he deserves to know. But I won't overburden him, either. Like I said, it's mine to keep."
"This on top of dealing with everyone else? And the Blight? And the civil war? And—"
She was still smiling, but something in her eyes appeared to have gone flat. "The burden of leadership," she said in a sweet voice, and the frightening part was Alistair couldn't tell if her mask was slipping, just a little, or if she really was handling everything that well.
It was… disturbing. There was strength and willpower, and he admired those. But this…? For want of anything else to do, and wanting to check that the rest of her wasn't as hard as her mind, Alistair brought his free hand up to cup the back of her head. It tangled with the complicated braid she kept her hair pinned in even now. The spark returned to her eyes, and Alistair glimpsed it before he pulled her in; as their lips touched, she giggled.
She was still soft, very much so, and gentle, her hands moving feather-like over his arms and up to his neck while their mouths moved together. From there, she pressed him this way and that, showing him what to do, which way to move, for he still had so much to learn, but her movements were slight and subtle, in contrast to his almost frantic grabbing at the back of her neck and her waist. Supple waist, soft lips, but such a hard mind and soul. It made no sense, not to him, anyway. He was still struggling with how to toughen himself up; he could hardly handle this.
When he broke it off, he chanced to look down at her for a moment, and he saw that the smile was back and wider than it had been just then. There was a look in her eyes, too: excitement and joy, if he had to name the components, and it lit her eyes up in a way that almost stole his breath. Contrasted with her usual behaviour, and it was jarring in the extreme. She saw it. "You look confused," she teased. "What is it?"
"I don't understand you," he said, well aware that what he was about to say would sound stupid but unsure how else he could phrase it. "You're so… hard, so tough, but you're so… soft, too. Don't look at me like that, you know what I meant!" he added, cheeks flushing, when she giggled. "You can process and accept almost at once anything that the world throws at you, you are as hard as stone, but you can be so soft, so gentle, at the same time. I don't…" Alistair shook his head.
Her fingers clutched at his breastplate, the way they always did when they were having moments like this. "Don't you know, Alistair?" she almost breathed. "You make me melt. You've seen me laugh with the others, seen me have fun and enjoy myself with them, but have you seen me melt the way I do when I'm with you? It's you. You just have that effect on me."
He could almost forget that it was freezing cold tonight. Only a small part of him knew that it was; his cheeks felt like they were on fire. He hadn't thought of that before. "Right," he choked. "I'll just… be over here. Until the blushing stops. Oh Maker…" But she only dug her fingers into his breastplate and remained leaning into him, her face inches from his, and he couldn't have gone anywhere even if he'd wanted to.
"Should you be surprised?" she said again. "Don't you remember that first night, after you kissed me? And you realised that I wanted to be courted, just so, and you took my hand from around your neck and kissed it? You must remember how I reacted…"
Alistair managed a grin. "Clear as crystal," he said, and by this point, his embarrassment had faded enough that he could work a distinct note of smugness into the words. He'd spent many an hour recalling that night after it was over, the first clumsy touches of their lips and how she had insisted on hooking her arms around his neck and spending a few more minutes with him when they broke apart. She had admitted to hoping that he would at some point ask her how she felt, which had prompted him to inquire why she hadn't asked, and her blushing and uncharacteristic stammering had led him to realise that the lady-turned-Warden wanted a lady's courting, which he had decided he could and would provide for her, to the void with the circumstances.
So he had kissed her hand, and she had gone weak at the knees, almost staggering into him and staring up at him with a look of naked adoration in her eyes. He did not have the words to describe how seeing that had made him feel. "I melted to marrow," she said now, smiling still. "Point being, I'm more than capable of being soft and emotional. I just choose not to most of the time."
"Right. The iron lady who's also an irrepressible romantic. Quite the combination."
She looked proud of herself. "Indeed. But you like it, don't you?"
"I do. You're a perfect handful, but I do," he said, and she giggled for a third time as they pressed their lips together again. Alistair was once more struck by the incongruity of it all: the lady who could face down broodmothers and the horde and the slaughter of her family and not even blink, yet who could also be, as she said, melted to marrow by a few honeyed words and sweet gestures. It was ridiculous, but he was not complaining. As much as her iron will scared him, so too did he admire it. Where would they have been without it?
Still. It occurred to him now that he wanted to see more. She had admitted that she shared her moments of weakness and burdens with Fergus, or at least a few of them. Now Alistair thought he might like to see them himself. It wasn't his right to expect this sort of thing, but communication formed a vital part of relationships, didn't it? Perhaps what he wanted was to know that she trusted him enough to let him see the other side of her, the weaker side of her. She had put so much effort into him, into making him better, had shouldered his burdens with not a word of complaint. Now he wanted to do the same for her.
"You can tell me, you know," he murmured, almost against her lips. "If you want."
She looked at him. "Tell you about what, exactly?"
"That inner turmoil you mentioned," he said. "The things you struggle with. You—you can tell me. I'd like to hear them."
She chuckled, and it was hard to say if the sound was mirthless or not. "Somehow, I doubt that."
"I mean it," he said, pulling away to look her in the eye. "I want to hear, to listen to you. You've listened to me going on and on often enough, and you've always been so patient with me. I think it's past time I returned the favour, don't you?"
She was silent for a long moment, looking away, furrowing her brow as if considering his offer. He watched her, stroking up down and her sides, waiting, aware of the fact he was being a perfect distraction but unable to bring himself to care. These moments made everything else worth it. After a short time had passed, she looked back at him, smiling again, but it was still bland enough for him not to be able to tell what it meant. "I appreciate that, Alistair," she said, "but I have to say no. I'd prefer not to tell you, not just yet."
The last three words gave a spark of hope, but still Alistair frowned. "Why not?" he asked, unable to stop a slight whine from creeping into his voice and ashamed of that fact. "Don't you trust me?" At once, he wanted to kick himself for saying that—how manipulative of him. But she was still smiling, and before he could apologise, she spoke again.
"I trust you, don't worry," she said, voice soothing as she lifted a hand to stroke his cheek. "I'm simply not in the habit of sharing this with others. It'd be… difficult, even with you. Besides, you have enough to worry about already without me adding to it. I don't want to overburden you."
"I could have said the same thing to you, you know," Alistair pointed out. "You just… you've done so much for me already. I want to return the favour."
Her smile widened, became a little less bland, a shade more appreciative. "I know that," she said. "I'm grateful for it. I know that I worry you sometimes, and I wish I didn't. So I understand you wanting to hear my problems. But I've got so used to dealing with them on my own, in my head…" She looked away again. There was a long silence.
He wondered what it was like for her. She was always so cool and in control when dealing with the others, but what happened when she got alone? Did she cry and shake the way he had done after Ostagar? Did she muffle her screams of anger in a pillow and throw things around? What did she do? And what did she have to do to keep the mask from slipping while in public? How hard did she have to fight? He did not know, and he didn't like it. It felt wrong that he didn't know. He was not entitled to this, no, but he wanted to know her, everything about her, to share in her strengths and her weaknesses. He wanted…
"You don't have to do this alone," he said, snaking an arm around her waist as he did. "I'm here if you need me. As, uh, as unoriginal as that sounds."
She gave him another quick peck on the lips. "I know," she said. "That means a great deal. It's comforting to know that you have my back, and everyone else, too. So maybe I'll tell you sometime… but knowing that is enough for now. Trust me."
He supposed he could work with that. If she took comfort in him just being there, well, it was something. "Makes sense."
"Good." Just for a moment, she rested her head on his shoulder, and he took the chance to turn and press a kiss against her hair. The moment was, however, interrupted by a sudden gush of cold wind rushing in and blowing past them both. Alistair felt a shiver run up his spine and gooseflesh erupt on his skin.
He sighed. "Right. We're still up in the Frostbacks."
She chuckled. "Hence why I asked you before if you wouldn't prefer to have had this conversation somewhere warmer. Go to bed, you, before you freeze."
Alistair grinned at her, gave her another quick kiss, and rose to his feet. "As my lady commands," he teased, and her chuckling turned into laughter. So hard, so soft; a walking contradiction, but a very enjoyable one. "I'll see you in the morning."
"One should hope. Sleep well, Alistair," she said, turning away again, back to the guard duty from which he had distracted her.
"You too," he said after a moment. Then he returned to his tent and stripped down again, and though he was still freezing cold, the warmth that he felt inside him as he crawled back into his bedroll, with a stupid smile spreading across his face for no reason he could discern, was more than enough to balance it out.