Snow flakes filtered down from the soft grey skies, disappearing into the measureless white expanse below. The Frostbacks rose up in the distance, their peaks buried in the clouds as deeply as their roots were buried in ice. The foothills below the mountains rolled out into the plains, to where the land and sky dissolved into mist. The roads had vanished beneath the snowfall, leaving only the faintest impression of a path for ghosts. A lone figure stood upon a rise, arms crossed to ward away the cold, looking up.
"Cara?" a voice called softly.
The figure turned, her robes swishing gently about her.
"Alistair."
"What are you doing out here alone?" The templar-warden climbed up to where she stood, his boots creating a muffled crunching that fell away into the quiet chilly air.
She turned back to the wintery landscape. "Watching the snow fall."
He stood beside her, looking into the distance.
"Aren't you cold?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Fire runes in the robe here," she pointed at a few glinting characters sewn in with lyrium thread, "they keep me warm and help with my elemental spells. First thing I learned to sew. You wouldn't believe how cold Kinloch could get in the winter."
"I wish my clothes kept me warm without the added bulk. I feel like a snowman made out of wool."
"Do you want me or Wynne to stitch a few in? It would hardly take any time at all."
"Yes, thank you. I'd like that." He smiled.
The lull in the conversation stretched out. Suddenly, Alistair tipped back, falling into the snow.
"Alistair?" Cara asked, startled.
Alistair for his part was waving his hands and feet about in the snow.
"What are you doing?" she cocked her head curiously.
"Making a snow angel. I used to do it all the time back in Redcliffe when I was a boy. You just sweep out your arms and legs like this, see?"
Cara observed him for a moment before flopping down into the snow beside him and stretching her hands out as far as they would go.
They stood up to observe their work, brushing off the frozen particles that clung to their clothes and hair.
"Brrr, I think I got some down my collar." Cara shivered, flipping her long hair out of the way to brush out a few stray bits of snow from her neck.
"Here, let me help." Alistair removed one of his gloves to flick away the flecks of snow he could see.
"Your neck is ice cold!" he exclaimed.
"Well, yeah—"
Alistair scowled, taking a closer look at her. Her nose and cheeks were flushed from exposure and, upon inspection, he found that her hands were chilled.
"You should bring a scarf and gloves if you're going to stand outside for a long time, you might catch a cold." Without further ado he unwound his scarf, a long dark grey one made for him by Wynne, and wrapped it snugly about her throat.
"Alistair, I appreciate the sentiment, but I did bring my own scarf and gloves." A smile tugged at her lips as she produced a similar scarf, also made by Wynne; this one a shimmering silver in color. "I wanted to feel the cold air out in the open. It's... different. Clean."
"Oh..." His indignant air gone, he scratched his head bashfully. "Well, I know from extensive experience that the flavor I'm tasting in my mouth right now is boot leather. Amazing what you can learn in a kennel, huh?"
"How does Fereldan boot leather measure up against Antivan, out of curiosity?"
"Fereldan leather is a strong, full-bodied and straightforward flavor with a hint of mabari. I haven't had the pleasure of gnawing on Zevran's boots as of yet. Not sure I want to; he might take that the wrong way."
"I imagine he'd say he always takes it the right way."
"Gah! Don't—don't say things like that. I'll need to scrub my brain for a week."
"If only the same logic could be applied to your socks... Actually, do you want to know what Zevran did with your socks—?"
"Great merciful Maker,not my socks!"
Cara burst out laughing, bent over double.
"What is the world coming to when a man can't even rely on the sanctity of his stockings? Is nothing sacred anymore?" Alistair fell to his knees, hands held up in entreaty towards the sky, hamming it up with an exaggerated expression of dismay.
Helpless in the throes of laughter, Cara leaned against her friend for support.
Brushing tears from her eyes, with a giggle still in her voice, she said, "Thank you for that, Alistair. I needed a laugh."
"Always ready to be a constant source of amusement, at your service."
She tilted her head, surveying him.
"Something on my face?" he asked.
She shook her head and stepped closer to him.
His breath caught as she reached up around his neck—and pulled her scarf down to knot it about his throat.
"Now you're the one who looks cold," she said, tugging on the scarf.
He tried to contain—with some degree of success—his disappointed sigh as she let go of the tassels. The following breath left him a bit light-headed—the silver scarf smelled like the warm scent of summer flowers. It smelled of Cara. He wondered if his scarf smelled of him, and if she liked it, too.
"Actually, you do have something on your cheek, Alistair."
"Where, here?"
"No, no. Here, bend down and let me." She motioned with one hand.
He dutifully complied, and blinked in surprise as a soft kiss brushed his cheek.
With an impish grin she bounded away into the snow, laughing as she called back, "Come on, slowpoke! There's a roast nug and a bottle of lichen ale with our names on it!"
His heart did a funny flip flop and he found himself with a foolish grin plastered on his face as he dashed after her, leaving a pair of footprints in the snow alongside hers.
A/N: I'm forever forgetting to add these little author notes at the ends of my chapters and tales. Many thanks to Suilven for the most secretive santa-fic betaing! :D