DISCLAIMER: I do not own Dragon Age, or any of its associated characters or properties.


At the Border (and In-Between)

I

The sound of Alistair's boots as he trudged deeper into the glen could barely be heard over the hum of insects. With a grumble he swatted away a cloud of gnats when his clad food trampled their grassy nest. A few more steps, and a duck under a branch, and he got past them and into the thinning trees beyond. He sought a small place; an isolated safehouse on the border of Orlais, and the unknown West. He cursed the wear of his years as his body ached with each stride. He hadn't taken any time to rest, he couldn't, if he hoped to make it in time.

He refused to concede that perhaps age, or the Blight in his blood were the cause. Just as he pointedly ignored that there lie no trace of anyone else having crossed this way for months. He reasoned his love would be careful to avoid a trail, anyway.

Stubbornly, he raked his flaxen hair back to rally his energy, then pursued his destination.

He navigated the last few tricks of the trail; the fallen oak, the overgrown stones, until he rounded corner of a narrow deer path, and his eyes fell on a desolate cabin nestled deep in the grove across the way.

Alistair sighed, and the corners of his mouth sank glumly at the lack of light he'd hoped would gleam within. Still, he scanned the clearing to the entrance, then crossed to the weather-worn door.

With each footstep, growing dread that it would, again this month, be empty weighed heavy in the soles of his shoes, and his toe bitterly nudged the wood frame. A scrabble of noise within immediately sprung him to action, however. Pressing his ear to the grain, he caught the telltale slip of metal slung from a scabbard, and he leapt back.

He drew his blade quickly, face settled into a defensive snarl, and aimed his next kick near the door handle. It gave under the force, flying backward into the cabin and crashing against the wall on its hinges. Alistair peered into the darkness, the moonlight outside giving his sight a disadvantage until adjusted.

He was met with only silence. He remained, statuesque, for a few more heartbeats, and willed the intruder to make the next move, or speak. This was a secret place, a border stop; a cache long abandoned by the Wardens. Not even most the Grey knew of its existence. He dared not suspect that she had made it. But wouldn't she have been expecting him, or called to him, rather than drawing weapons?

Could be a lost traveler, or someone injured, he reasoned. Or an apostate.

He scowled as he considered the implications, but the stillness awaiting him in the dark only set him more on edge. His quarry had patience; insisted he step through first, and he couldn't do so without playing directly into their hands.

What would she do? He wondered. What would she want him to do, as his safety so often concerned her more than her own?

"When your only choice is to spring the trap, be unpredictable."

The renounced prince drew his shield to the front determinedly and charged into the space with a yell. Without knowing his target, he refrained from swinging either sword, nor board. Instead he braced both against blow, and barreled to push any foe to a wall until he could identify them.

The small room inside made this entirely risky, and close quarters limited his options. He nearly raced to the back wall by the time he heard the whoosh and spin of fabric, and a cloaked figure danced from a corner. Only the blade edge glinted in the moonbeam caught his eye in time, and he met it with his own longsword. A sharp clang sounded his successful block, and he felt little resistance to his strength. In surprise, he held back, only keeping the offending edge at bay, rather than following through to strike.

Swords matched and tentatively straining, he glared into the hooded face of his combatant, finally close enough to see a small nose, and feminine lips in an amused smirk. And, in the single second he realized he knew that smile all too well, it faltered in the same realization.

"Love?" He breathed the word between them, his sword arm still raised.

The small woman sheathed her weapon first and withdrew a short step. She finally dropped back her hood, and the sight of pointed ears, and her disproportionally large round eyes, nearly broke Alistair's heart with relief. Her flecked irises sought his, and her lids brimmed, glassy. In a single moment he took in everything about her and nothing. She looked... tired, weaker, but he became instantly too flooded with emotion to notice the detail. His blade clattered to the floor, and he swung his shielded arm behind her back, crushing her cloaked body tight to his. His free hand braced and cradled her neck as he kissed her possessively.

He hadn't meant to whimper. He hadn't meant to so quickly slide his tongue into her mouth, but it felt beyond his control. He hadn't realized how afraid he'd been that he'd never be able to taste her again, and that fear drove him until she clutched at the front of his chainmail and gently pushed.

Their lips gave a soft noise as they parted, and Alistair raised his brow in concern. A wry smile from her lips greeted him, and he leaned his forehead down so she could meet him half way, which she readily did, too short to initialize such an action herself. Both his arms slipped around her and he clutched her close, to breathe her in. The aging Warden felt weak to the growing risk he would cry. He implored his heart to cease pounding.

Her reticence said so much more than any welcome might have.

He feared the reason she didn't seem to be holding him as tightly, their reunions usually a flurry of kisses and cuddles. His trepidation grew as she quaked in a shuddering deep sigh, and moved to tuck her head and face into her favorite spot in the crook of his neck. It was a position they'd spent hours in before, locked in embrace. It was then he realized she was clinging to him, small hands gripped into the fabric lining his gear at his back. He just hadn't felt her. Was he losing sensitivity in his nerves? A side effect of the Calling? A sign he's closer to the end?

Alistair's stomach plummeted, and he instinctively squeezed her. He heard, and felt, her breath catch, and he realized too late she had lost weight. The elven woman had always carried the petite lines of her people, but briefly he worried his hug could break her. She wasn't just smaller, she felt... fragile. Weak. And with a continued sinking feeling, it occurred to him it was not due to him that he couldn't feel her embrace through his armor.

Reluctantly, he retreated, and gently squeezed her arms under his hands as he stepped back to look at her. The flyaways of her hair framed a haggard face. A single look in her eyes and he recognized the old sparkle buried somewhere deep within, but it was muted under age and heartache.

This was not the longest after a meeting they'd gone without talking (usually because they were naked by now), but it had been too long this time, too long apart, and with a soft groan, he turned to close the door behind them.

Shadow filled the cabin, but after a few moments of deft shuffling, he caught the sight of delicate pale fingers in match-light before an oil lamp flared to life.

Alistair unbuckled his shield from his forearm, and rest it against a nearby wall. He peeled his gauntlets and gloves off as well, and dropped them atop a nearby barrel. He considered dismantling himself further, but his love, the woman he had so ached for and missed, still stood next to the lamp, her small arms folded under her cloak, watching him.

Everything came secondary to her. The cabin had so few things, the barrel, a small table with a single chair, and a bed with nightstool. The chair sat closest to her, so he strode to her and eased her to it, more mindful this time to be gentle.

"You're worrying me." He came to kneel on the floor before her. Calloused fingers found her cheek, a little more gaunt than he'd ever seen her. Her features, once nestled in gentle curves of flesh, delicate and sweet as spring, now seemed as severe as winter- sharpened by years of stress. Her eyes were sunken, her forehead and lip lines developing wrinkles, and the first few strands of silver hair flowed from her temples. He briefly wondered if it really had been recent, or he simply hadn't noticed the gradual change until they were parted for a time.

"I'm fine, I promise," she finally replied. The smooth tone of her voice soothed his spine, exhausted as it sounded. His wife sighed and leaned into his hand affectionately. "Gods, I missed you, though."

"I came." He set his second knee to the floor as well as he inched his way closer to her. "Every month, except last. I started to think..."

Her palm found his heart, and he wished his armor gone so he could feel it. "I'm sorry, Alistair. I thought I was so close for awhile there. I kept thinking if I kept going, when I next saw you, I'd have good news. I came last month but you were..." with the Inquisition. He understood. "At least they finally facilitated contact. Hearing you were okay meant the world to me," she finished.

He gave a lopsided smile and brush his thumb along her lower lip. "Yeah... I felt the same. I'm just glad you're alright."

The opportune moment to share their trails arrived, but neither reached for it. They had so much to discuss, so much to talk about. He had so many questions, and was most certain, after the Breach, that she would, too. But, right now, he found he couldn't bring himself to tear himself from their reprieve to address business.

Their separation of duty had always been hard. But as the Calling began to claw at the base of their skulls, the inevitable creeping closer, he felt himself growing more selfish, and more resentful of any lost time between them.

He refused to acknowledge that even this time was temporary- moments stolen in a desperate hope to rendezvous at the border when they could. Instead, he lovingly pressed his lips to her crown.

He couldn't label the forlorn, aching look in her round eyes when he stood, and stepped away, no matter how brief.

At the barrel, he began breaking down his armor, piece by heavy piece. It had become so familiar, he felt oddly weightless without it, like he might float away if the steel didn't provide an anchor. He groaned as he bent over to pick up the last dropped pieces, straining stiffly. He didn't even hear her light steps behind him. When he straightened, a narrow nose nuzzled between his shoulder blades, and thin fingers clutched the front of his chest.

Alistair gave a shuddering breath at the contact, finally able to feel more of her presence with his armor absent. Her hands on him, her warm breath over the linen of his undershirt, drew him back into a hundred memories, and he lolled his head back with a sigh.

His strong fingers traced her arms as he tugged them just a little tighter around him, and he felt a rewarding kiss at his spine.

"Don't leave me..."

He almost hadn't heard it. It was muttered, whispered even, into his shirt, but that made it all the sadder. He turned to her and immediately cupped her face in both hands, cradling her close as if she were sand about to slip from his grasp.

"In all we've faced together, there is nothing that could chase me from your side."

Only their duties parted them. Events that could not be ignored. But they'd already discussed and argued that as much as any couple should. They now considered it a force of nature, not a choice, and so their separation never felt voluntary.

Her long fingers gripped his sides and he fell into her gaze for a moment, seeking any other words that could push back the shadows behind her eyes.

She still wore all her gear, and her dark cape dwarfed her frame.

"Are you cold? I could get the fire going."

She nodded numbly, but when he pushed up his shirt sleeves and went for the door, he found her trailing after.

"I'll be back, you should rest."

She didn't respond, but when he stepped out into the night air, she followed, a few feet behind.

He smiled to himself. Were their places reversed he wouldn't be so ready to let her out of his sight so soon either.

They gathered branches in comfortable silence, and each time she cradled a piece to help, he took it from her wordlessly. She didn't argue this time, and they remained side by side for the few minutes it took for them to get what they needed.

Once back inside, he stacked a neat pile in the hearth, and fetched some spare paper scraps from his bag to mix with the moss they'd collected. She brought him the matches, long ago forgoing tinder and flint, and he offered her another small smile as their fingers brushed together.

He focused for a time on getting a small fire going. Such a small room needed little to heat, and he preferred not to babysit the flame. Eventually he stood, and turned in time to see the Warden Commander drape her heavy dark fabric over the back of the single chair.

He inhaled sharply at how her leather jerkin hung off her hips and sagged over her form. The lithe vixen of a cupid he'd fallen for, all gentle valleys and planes, had shrunk into little more than a bean pole. Curves disappeared around bone. He remembered to breathe again when her eyes fell on his expression, and shame flushed her face.

"Oh, Love..." His baritone cracked. He went to her, but a small hand lifted, already prepared to stop him.

"It's temporary. I'll get strong again. Just been pushing a little hard lately."

"What's going on? How...?" How could it have gotten this bad? "Is it... are you in danger?"

Her guiltily downcast eyes rose to plead with him. "Haven't you been?"

He'd decided to wait before telling her about his close brush with death in the Fade. Now that he knew why someone might dodge such a question, his concern didn't sway.

"Please, let's not, right now. Let's just..." She whispered softly between them, a hand nervously running over her opposite bicep.

With one last check on the door lock, he removed his boots, and obeyed, allowing quiet to fall between them again. He could feel her eyes on him, a sensation he'd grown to crave for a decade. It was different that the lustful gaze of fresh lovers, newlyweds, or even long-parted husband and wife.

He drifted to her, like a magnet, but words did not come so easy. His hazel eyes implored her to speak, to hear the flow of her river-like voice, but his gaze was met with one of sad longing, and his purpose wavered.

Finally, his fingers reached for her, traced her arms and shoulders, then her sides, before they trekked behind her to the laces holding her leather tunic together. As usual, it took time to get the armor to comply with his demands, but unlike the flurry that usually accompanied this act, the slow progress kept him close to his love, her nearness commanding his full attention instead of dominating it.

When the ties finally gave way, it took little effort for the armor fall from her and he picked it up to set it aside.

The thin cloth she used as a barrier between the leather and her skin seemed as equally worn as she, and he spotted goosepimples rising under the lower hem of her top, and along her thighs, peeking under the short bottoms she'd donned under the jerkin's studded skirt.

Without thinking, he raised his arms over his head, taking his own shirt with it, still warm and relatively new, and pulled it down over her. She wordlessly slipped into his warmth and scent. The harsh lines of her face immediately softened a little at the comfort, then her eyes, and palms, found his chest. He stilled at the touch so long denied him, shivering a little as her small fingertips played over his chest hair.

His shirt seemed so large on her, draped over hips and thighs, and when he snaked his arms back around her, the fabric plumed in excess. Still, she at least looked more like herself.

"Hey," he upheaved the silence. "I love you," he reminded her.

Outside, the telltale plop of the first few raindrops on the tree branches officially declared them in for the night, and Alistair allowed himself a semi-content sigh. The temperature inside baked to a welcoming level, and he and his companion spent a few minutes massaging the heat into one another until they were comfortable.

"Have you eaten?" Her hand lightly squeezed his, and he grinned at the normalcy. "No, but I brought you something."

"Me too." She simpered, her lips curling.

They retrieved their goodies, and returned to exchange shy smiles and loosely bound packages. Alistair traded his, a little tattered and messily wrapped in plain paper, for the one she gave him, swaddled in fabric and tied neatly with small twine into a bow.

They shuffled to the table, and gingerly delved into their prizes. Treats had become somewhat a gifting tradition between them. They both traveled with as few personal items as possible, and food often brought such pleasant memories of the their adventures. It allowed them to share their gifts, as well, and alleviated the need to interrupt their time together for scavenging or hunting.

Within his own, Alistair found unadorned, but aromatic, pale cookies. A whiff revealed citrus lemon, and a hint of either jasmine or lavender. An unexpected combination, but his stomach rumbled in approval at the scent, rendering the biscuits certainly worth trying.

He broke off an edge and gnawed it, feeling the light, dry texture crumble into sweetness in his mouth. The lemon made his mouth water at its potency, but it was so refreshing, he blinked a couple times, more awake with every chew, and plopped the rest of the corner in his mouth.

A girlish giggle snapped him back to a bobbing head, his love's small hand covering her mouth as she looked at him. "Darling, you haven't changed at all!"

He meant to argue, but the cookie in his mouth turned his defense into a pathetic sputtering of crumbs, and he thought his elf might lose her balance with laughter. She sweetly brushed the flecks of cookie away from the side of his mouth with an amused smile. He swallowed and then kissed her thumb in thanks. He remembered now, the first time she'd done such a thing, so early in their relationship.

It felt like a lifetime ago. If she was thinking the same, she didn't say so. Instead she returned to her own package.

Alistair had never been good at cooking, and after a few years, testing the local tavern food became a decent way to spend an evening together, as their journeys led them all over Thedas. From each coast, and in almost every town, things were prepared differently. This time, however, he wanted to bring her something familiar, food for comfort, that would remind her of Ferelden. He had to time it well to get it to her before it spoiled at this distance, but it was so worth the joy in her face when she found a small roast of ram, with fingerling potatoes, carrots, and onions, all nestled together in a little paper-lined meal box. It was long cold, and a few days from irrecoverable, but she didn't seem at all disappointed. In fact she eagerly stole a soft-cooked carrot into her mouth, the smell of butter and herbs wafting to him from nearby, and a satisfied, slow smile spread across her face as she closed her eyes.

"Mmm, perfect... Tastes like home." She set the package back down and shimmied briefly in an adorable "happy food dance".

Alistair chuckled and gathered their banquet. He carried their spoils to the bed so they could both sit, him along the edge, her cross-legged atop the simple bedspread. The wood frame groaned only a moment until they settled, and he turned so they could both access each container.

He reveled in the natural tandem of sharing a meal together. Such a mild thing, but he'd grown accustomed to it being as common as daylight, and he felt sun-starved. She caught him grinning at her as she ate, and it only grew as her chewing awkwardly slowed.

"What?" She swallowed, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

He shook his head and made to return to the food, but her fingers fisted in his hair quickly hijacked that plan. He allowed himself to be yanked closer to her face, doing his best to look smug about it.

With each passing moment she'd become more familiar, and this time when she smirked, it actually reached her eyes. "Cheeky bastard."

"Thought I was a royal bastard." He dared lean closer to brush his lips over hers, just close enough to feel the subtle lift of her smile.

"A decade too late on that one, Lord Theirin."

He groaned loudly and made a great show of being wounded, covering his heart with his hand dramatically. "Oof. Don't say that name, what did I say about that name!?"

She chuckled and shifted the dwindling containers to the stool, then scooched herself behind where he sat, and slipped her legs on either side of him to brace him. Alistair felt the soft flesh of her inner calves cradle him in warmth, but she kept a small distance between their bodies, giving herself room to touch and explore his back with fingertips and lips.

He lost track of time as she traced his old scars, then silently counted the few new ones. When her fingers glanced over a still-healing rib, he flinched. He was still shirtless, but as he looked down over his stomach and ribs, idling following her fingers, he knew the marks didn't stop at the waistline. How many could he hide? How many could she?

"I guess we're old soldiers now, huh?"

He heard her scoff under her breath. "If that were true, we wouldn't have so many fresh ones."

He frowned. He wasn't so good at the self-awareness thing with his emotions, but she-

"I don't know why I keep thinking it will end someday. That was never part of the deal."

Once again, gently mumbled, but she was only saying what he couldn't. He selfishly wanted a chance for a peaceful life, too. And she was right, he had no right to expect such, even before he'd met her.

"If it were impossible, you wouldn't be doing this," he replied. "Don't tell me you're giving up."

She stilled. Even her hands paused the steady massage she had begun on his shoulders.

"No," she finally said. "Of course not. That's not an option. I just... think it's time we start being grateful that we've even gotten as much time together as we have."

Alistair didn't respond. He didn't want to. He was afraid being grateful meant he should accept their impending end, and he wasn't quite ready for that. Too strained to speak, he reached to run his fingers along the outside of her legs, down the back of her thighs as far as he could reach. She cuddled closer for him, the recognizable feel of shirt fabric against his skin returned as she pressed close and wrapped herself around him so he could reach more.

He focused on now. Now he could feel her. She had changed a little, but she was still his, as she always had been. And he could feel her. Smell her. He could be with her now. He stood before he knew what he fully planned to do, and when he turned, she too blinked in anticipation. The warrior managed to pick her up with worrisome ease, to hoist her over his shoulder so he could use his free hand to cast her cloak over the small dining table, then set her upon it.

She huddled inside his tunic, surprised, but trusting, and he sat in the chair, drawing her close so that her small feet rest on either side his thighs and her pointed body slid itself into his arms. She so easily folded into him, and he lifted her face with gentle kisses along her jaw and then her throat. He mapped the lines of her legs with his hands, tracing lines from feet to thighs, ever climbing higher. When she finally relinquished her lips to him, he kissed her slowly, taking special care to do all the things that once made her lightheaded.

He distracted her from the fingertips tracing her new marks as well, slipping his hands between cloth and skin. When he spent too much time on a new, deep scar in the flesh of her hip, she squirmed in discomfort.

"Does it hurt?" He breathed against her lips before kissing her again.

"I don't care."

"I do." Still, he moved on and squeezed the muscle of her rear with both hands til she mewled in a much more delicious way. "You're not going to tell me?"

His lips returned to her neck, where he knew she would be weaker to him. A few tentative nibbles and soothing kisses, and she slowly rolled herself against him. "I don't want to think about it. I don't want to remember. Any of it. Right now." Her words came like her thoughts, in pieces, cut into easier-to-digest bites. It was as good as a surrender.

"If you want, I'll make you forget your name." His fingers found purchase on edge of her shorts and began to tug. His lover squirmed but, voluntarily or not, lifted her hips for his shifting hands.

"Alistair, what are you..?"

"Being grateful."


ATTN READERS: Chapter TWO is purely lemon (Rated M) territory. If that is not your bag, I am not offended. Please go ahead and SKIP Chapter Two and head straight to Chapter THREE, where the story will pick up the next morning. You'll miss nothing pertinent to the story, not even dialogue. ;) Please enjoy!