Notes:
Snow begins to squeak at around -10 degrees Fahrenheit, from what I've read. It's not really cold out until the snot freezes in your nose, my dad always says.

Also: I know Shale was a woman, you know it, the characters don't yet.


And I nearly had Elissa try to warm her hand on Alistair's chest in the time honored tradition of women with cold hands, but that started taking this fic in an entirely different direction. I hearby authorize someone else to follow that plot bunny if they wish. :)

As usual, they left it up to him to find out what was wrong. They were on week two of their trek to Orzammer; they had finally entered the mountains and could already feel the building chill.

While he was out on patrol, their erstwhile leader had stalked off into the pines, her face despondent. Wynne had been the most helpful.

"I think, Alistair, that you should go to her, find what is troubling her spirit. I would have gone myself, but I tire so easily, especially on these long marches. Lelianna tried to ask her what was wrong as she walked off, but I'm not certain Elissa even heard her," the worried mage pled her cause with a sigh. She smiled faintly. "We both know that she has been unable to ignore you for some time."

Trying not to blush, he sheepishly ran his hand through his hair. "I suppose that's true – I'm too loud and bumbling to be ignored."

So he had followed her obvious bootprints, not sure if the squeaking was more from his armor or the snow. It got cold in Redcliffe, but never so cold the snow squeaked! The armor was muffled by the heavy woolen cloak he had thrown on. Maker, but it was cold up here! Squidge, squidge, squidge…

Fortunately, the snow was good for at least one thing; it shored up his less than awe-inspiring tracking skills until he got to the point that his darkspawn-detector went off. He paused a moment – there was only the expected one ping, so that had to be Elissa. His brow furrowed. Under the large spruce in front of him.

"Maker's breath, woman, how did you get under here?" He hadn't had to resort to belly-crawling, but it was close. He looked up from his sprawl on the pine-needle (but not snow) covered ground. Elissa sat with her back to the trunk, her arms wrapped tightly around her unarmored form.

"I would say that taking off your armor would probably help," she commented with a more subdued version of her sardonic tone. Inside, he cursed himself for not checking for her cloak, as well. She looked quite cold, her eyes and nose were both fairly red. Oh, of course – she had been crying. His predicament had brought a faint, one sided smile to her lips, however. She shook her head in mock despair, hand to forehead, and then swiped at her eyes, trying to mask the movement.

"It's warmer under here. The tree cuts the wind, and there's no snow." She snuffled and blew her nose on an abused looking handkerchief. "I needed to think, alone, "she offered without him having to ask.

"Was that a request for me to leave, then? Oghren and Zevran managed to freeze Shale to the ground with a bucket of water – I think they're going to turn him into a snowman, I'm sure they could use some help." No such thing was going on, but it the most ridiculous thing he could think of at the moment. As reward, he saw faint twinkle of amusement, or perhaps exasperation, flicker in her eyes.

"I – no, please stay. I've been chasing my thoughts around in my head so much. I probably need someone else to capture them,"she admitted, looking down at her hands. Her hair, undone for a change, fell in a tangled clump around her face, hiding her unhappy eyes.

"Well, I'm certainly used to chasing things onto your blade, "Alistair commented lightly, and (reluctantly) dragged the heavy wool from around his shoulders to tuck it over her like a blanket. His breastplate and spaulders (the only parts of his armor he actually wore) immediately dropped to the temperature of the air, or so it felt. Thank the Maker for the padded coat worn underneath, but how did people survive in this cold every year?

Apparently feeling his shiver, the young noble shook her head. "Don't be ridiculous. I appreciate the gesture, but you shouldn't be cold because of my lack of foresight. On the other hand, off with the armor, or we might as well bring snow with us under the cloak."

"I think that you're stalling, but your desire is my command…" His fingers were already chilling, but he managed to yank the straps of his breastplate loose. Some recreational snuggling as part of talking his favorite lady down her latest hurt and/or upset? You didn't have to ask him twice. Mmm, snuggly wool cloak, snuggly beautiful lady…

Beautiful lady suddenly making the shoulder of his slightly sweaty gambeson damper. No, no, no… He put his arm around her and squeezed slightly, still a new and exciting feeling, in better circumstances. "You know, they say in a lot of situations, you must either laugh or cry. I always go with laughing, because there's less of a mess to cleanup." He wasn't going to ask her, he was going to be patient and wait for her to tell him. Patient, patient, that's him… This is him, not asking.

Ah, finally. He strained to hear her voice, so quiet.

"Today is his birthday, "she whispered, mostly into his shoulder.

"Andraste's husband? Your warhound? Sten?"

She smacked him solidly on the other shoulder – this was no love tap, and he realized that humor has its limits, after all.

"Oren, you oaf! My nephew. My brother Fergus' son. He would have been seven years old today…" He held still. His first impulse was to apologize, and with difficulty he swallowed that. That wouldn't help her continue.

"Howe's men killed him," he guessed. He dared to move a little more, bringing up a hand to stroke her hair, to dry her eyes a little more before the tears froze. He panics as she stiffens. What did he do wrong?

"They must have, "she whispers out. "I was so, so focused on fighting them that I never opened the door. I never opened the Blight-cursed door!" She has gone from whisper to shout by the last and he supposes getting angry is a tiny bit better than being weepy, even if his ears might never be the same. She collapses in on herself, as if she didn't have all of those strong warrior's muscles. "He might have been still alive then. I might have been able to get him out, and Oriana. But I never even opened the damn door."

For a moment, he just holds her. He'd swear the cold makes his brain go slower, but she's also demonstrated that this isn't the time for humor and sometimes he'd swear he doesn't have much else to offer in these situations. He strokes her hair, dries the tears with the edge of the cloak, and just let's her cry herself out. Haltingly, he puts his thoughts together.

"Elissa, you would never leave someone behind. You've been unfailingly kind to every person in need we've come across. I cannot believe that you would do something thoughtless," he began, ignoring her grunt of disgust and denial. "No, that's who you are, and that's why you're the bright spot in this, as I insisted. Help me remember – you told me there were men right outside your door, didn't you?"

He thinks that's a nod. Her head against his shoulder feels so right. No distractions, Alistair.

"Well, then, you already knew. Do you really think that they would sit and do nothing after hearing you fight like that? After you spoke with your mother? I'm sure you were quiet, but that quiet? No one fights that quietly."

Her sobbing didn't so much stop as froze, as she digested his words through her grief.

"You… you're right." Her voice is becoming hoarser by the moment. "They were already dead." Pause, pause… and she began weeping again, though more gently. Well, of course, she was still sad, but it was worth it if she felt less guilty at all – she was obviously too hard on herself. Maker knew he had some less than manly moments about his guilt about Duncan's death. Hmm, good thought that…

"You know how you keep telling me that I would have only gotten myself killed, if I had been with Duncan? You should listen to your own words," he told the top of her head.

Better. Her head came up and she wiped her very red eyes with a stray lock of hair. Her expression made his heart clench, though.

"I suppose I'm being very- weak? I can't fall apart like this when we're trying to save all of Ferelden. Everything, really – it's not like the Blight would stop at our borders. I'm crying about one – one dead child? How many children died, just at Lothering? I should stop being a weepy court flower and suck it up," she sneered at herself. Oh, that wasn't good either. He reached under the blanket and took her hand, squeezing it to get her attention.

"You're no delicate flower, and we've already had that conversation. You're like an elegant, steel sword. Perfectly crafted, beautiful and dangerous, not one of those decorative nothings the court popinjays wear. And you've been tempered, like a sword, but you do you know what happens to a sword that gets too hard? It becomes brittle and breaks when you hit it ,"he explained emphatically, moving his hands to her shoulders instead, resisting the urge to shake her. "And if you become hard, like that, you won't be… you. And I'm not sure I could handle that, and really, it's all about the impact on me, because I'm such a terribly selfish person, myself."

The parade of emotions on her face during his oration was terribly amusing – startlement, sorrow, embarrassment, and then she chuckled slightly. And then laughed. And then guffawed.

"It's not that funny! But I can't stop laughing," the hysterical warden gasped out between giggles. His arms slipped from her shoulders to hold her close again, until the laughter finally died out.

He shook his head to all the questions flung his way as he carried the exhausted and heart wounded warden and carefully set her on her bedroll. He had held her until she had cried herself to sleep, following the hysterical laughter. He brushed back the hair from her face, carefully tucked her blankets and a spare of his own around her. With a sigh, he kissed her on the forehead, hoping that someday both of their pain would be gone.