A.N.: Another little writing exercise to get my mind off of things. Heavily inspired by Every Other Life by NotLaura. Haven't read it? Go. Now. Seriously.

She always tells herself that this will be the last time, that it's over, it's the end and other very final and decisive things. But in truth, it never is. For when he steps into her chamber, in his perfectly polished armor and cloak of the deepest purple, she does not see the King that he is. She sees her fellow warrior, Warden, friend.

Lover.

And she does not stop him when he shuts the door behind him and grabs her chin, his kiss hungry and desperate. She tries not to give in to the passion, to resist and for once, to look into his eyes and speak but he doesn't let her and soon, all she feels is abandonment while his hands tug at the laces of her leathers, his touch electrifying and his scent intoxicating. It was their little secret.

But they all knew. Of how the King often left his wife in Denerim and travelled to Vigil's Keep, where he would not be seen until the next morning. Of how gleaming he looked on his arrival and incredibly glum on his departure.

The first times, she had cried out her soul when he left, trying to reason with him, to end everything and just simply forget. But then his eyes would start to water and the tears threatened to spill. And she could not bear to see him hurt for she knew his pain was her own. This was what they had chosen and even so, they could not be true to themselves. Eventually the tears ceased to make their appearances, his touch became hungrier and she spoke fewer and fewer words.

All she sought when he entered was his kiss, the fickle feeling of his flesh against hers, the volatile warmth of his body seeming eternal for a moment, only to have time start moving once more and have him removed from her. But she did not speak nor did she cry. She silently watched him dress himself, not bothering to cover her own naked body, having learned how to deal with the shame far too long ago.

Sometimes, she could feel his head turning towards her. But she never looked up. Not until that day.

The King had arrived to discuss matters of the Wardens, of how their funds were at the moment, the recruitments. Various discussions would occur, with the King's advisors often chiming in unwanted, as his Majesty seemed far more interested in the reactions of the Commander rather than the opinions of the men that surrounded him.

But as soon as he dismissed his committee, and they disappeared behind the heavy door that sealed the Commander's chamber, she was the one to lunge herself at him, digging her fingers on his hair, while her tongue sought his. His hands ran up and down her waist, trying to blindly find the laces that kept her leathers together, desperate to feel her body melding on his, in that fit that seemed to have been made by a heavenly smith.

And once more they danced in their sleepless dream, nor night or day making themselves known, for in that moment there was only him and only her. But as it always did, time let its cruel streak shine, allowing itself to run its course freely as the wind began blowing once more and the day that marked the King's departure threatened to arrive quicker than hoped.

She would not look at him as he got dressed. She would not hug the sheets against her bosom nor would she let the tears that clutched at her heart spill. But she knew it. That they were to be no more. That she was tired, exhausted of trying to keep down all of the hurt she felt when all she saw was him walking away... after feeling whole for but a moment.

So she looked up. And there he was, gazing down at her while he tied his cloak around him, eyes slightly widening when, for the first time in months, she returned his gaze. A single tear danced along her lower lashes, finally taking its course down her cheek, and with it came many more as she clutched the fabric against her chest, feeling like her heart was about to be ripped from her. She couldn't breathe and almost laughed at what a ridiculous sight she must've been. The great Warden Commander, who killed the Archdemon and ended a blight... sobbing like a small child.

She heard the sudden clank of his armor against the stony floor, his arms circling her legs while he laid his head on her lap and wept. He knew it too and she caressed his head with her hand while covering her eyes with the other. She opened her mouth several times, trying to say something... anything, but all she managed was to gasp for air.

Leaning down, she planted a small kiss on his head, caressing his hair while trying to subside her own sorrow. He breathed deeply and to feel his hair on her fingers was to push the dagger further on her chest.

"There is nothing for you here..." She whispered, her voice coming out in a ragged breath. "Not anymore."

He lifted his head to look up at her, his eyes reddened and his features marred by the shadows that haunted them. Slowly, he removed his hands from her legs, taking deep breaths to steady himself as he rose on his feet, looking down at her. One hand reached to touch her face but she turned her head away, not daring to return his gaze once more. His hand hung in the air for a moment, with both hope and confusion clinging to it. But he understood and so, he withdrew his hand to his side, never looking away from her as he turned to the door. Grabbing the handle, he leaned his head against the heavy wooden door, letting out a sigh, before running his hand down his face, trying to regain composure that he knew, would never come again.

His fingers grasped more tightly the handle, finally turning it, steadying himself for a moment before opening the door.

"No one will ever be you."

Her heart stopped right then and there, making her want, for a moment, to simply get up and run after him. But she was no child, nor she was the naive young girl that met the bastard prince while both were nothing more than warriors on a quest to save the land. And this was not a love story told by a wandering bard, to entertain the court. Once more she wept, her tears soaking the sheet she held against her face, letting her sobs and wailing finally go uncontrolled, trying to expel al the hurt and pain from within her.

The King would not return, his interest in the Wardens becoming little more than information acquired by reports from Vigil's Keep. Both masks fell into place, consolidated by the distance between them. But even so, when alone in her chambers, her mind would seldom wander towards Denerim, jumping over the chasms of his final departure. And she would silently curse the blood that ran on her veins, the blackened poison in it that both brought them together and tore them apart. But then there would be a knock on the door, a few pleasantries uttered by someone looking for the Commander. And her mask would fall into place once more, a smile without the faintest hint of a crack, shining through it. For this was her duty. And love was all but an enemy of it.