Probably just a cutesy drabble-series set post-Awakening about this absolutely adorkable pairing I was rather forcibly introduced to the other day. If that's your thing, enjoy!

Nathaniel Howe set the axe against the cart, along with his bow and sword, and half-sat on the back wheel, catching his breath.

He and some volunteers from Amaranthine, along with a few Wardens, were gathering lumber for repairs to Vigils Keep. The Darkspawn had been defeated and the city saved, but the Keep had taken a beating.

Still, it had done the job. They had survived.

He fumbled through his weatherworn leather coat, drawing out his pipe and a small leather pouch, his mind wandering as his hands went through the familiar routine.

Winter would be setting in soon. There was already a slight chill in the air and a fine coat of dew in the mornings that would shortly become frost. He took a long draw, watching the other volunteers at work across the clearing.

"Velanna says that's a bad habit." An earnest voice sounded from behind him.

Howe jumped, descending into a fitful of choked coughs as his breath hitched and his throat filled with backed-up smoke. A firm, but careful hand switched between patting and rubbing his back, while another gripped his shoulder.

"Sorry." Sigrun said, hesitantly.

"S'okay." He managed, throat hoarse. "Wasn't paying attention." He waved her apology off, turning to lean sideways on the cart.

Sigrun was standing on the back, arms resting on sides looking worried. The thought that this was one of those rare terms she was at eye-level wormed its way through his muddled head and he felt the urge to smile. Instead, he took another slow draw on the pipe.

"Maybe Velanna was right." She shrugged.

"Maybe you want to see the shit she smokes." He chuckled, thinking of the elf's Dailish concoctions and remedies. "For that matter, so do I. Apparently some of those things leave you seeing visions."

"What about yours?"

"Mine just relaxes me." He shrugged. "Not much of an alchemist, or a herbalist. The mix was passed to me by…" And there it was again, the sick, heavy feeling in his gut. The weight that never left his shoulders.

"What's wrong?" Sigrun asked, seeing some change in his face.

"My father gave it to me."

Nathaniel Howe, son of the former Arl Rendon Howe. Family of traitors, usurpers, opportunists, villains…

He kept telling himself it didn't matter. That he was a Grey Warden now. That he'd given up everything and would keep giving as much as it took for the cause, to prove to…who? The Commander? His comrades? Himself? To prove that he was better than his family name. Different from his father. That he was his own person and damn it if people didn't stop looking at him the way they'd look at Rendon then-

"Hey." Sigrun shoved him, pulling him from his thoughts. She had a light frown, somewhere beneath all her tattoos. "Cheer up, it might not happen." She grinned at him and hopped down off the cart, axe in hand, and went back to join the other woodcutters.

He watched her go, sometimes still not sure if she was real or some kind of…collective shared hallucination among the Wardens.

For all that, Sigrun was probably his only friend. Maybe his first, if it came to that. Sure, he trusted and counted on the other Wardens, as they did he…he hoped. As comrades, as brothers in arms, as men and women joined by blood with a shared, inevitable fate. But friends…it was hard to know where he stood, still, sometimes.

Sigrun had changed, in the time since the defeat of the Architect. She'd gradually let go of her past with the Legion and embraced her role with the Wardens more than any of them, in a way he thought comparable to only the Commander.

Of course she refused to stop joking about finding her death fairly often. He wasn't sure why. As Wardens, the same destination awaited them all, now.

And despite living below the surface all her life, she was adapting to life as a surfacer fairly quickly too. She always had questions, queries, thoughts, musings, observations to make…

And to his surprise, he found he was only too willing to entertain them.

Maybe he just liked feeling useful to somebody as more than a monster-slayer. Maybe he liked the way she looked at him and saw Nathaniel Howe, rather than his father. Maybe he was just lonely.

He took a last draw on the pipe, enjoying the sensation of the fumes smothering his inner worries and fears, like putting out a fire.

"Nate!"

He dragged himself from his thought again to find Sigrun standing in front of him. She was looking up at him with a determined frown, arms behind her back. Behind her, he noticed the other standing around, watching, some with amused looks on their faces.

Nathaniel tried not to scowl as he pocketed his pipe and inwardly raced to think whether he'd said or done anything to stupid or-

She pulled an axe, his, from behind her and thrust it into his empty hands. He looked down at her, drawing a mental blank. He opened his mouth but couldn't find anything to say.

"Don't just stand there lookin' at me. Everybody else is working." She turned up the collar of the fur-lined coat she wore and crossed her arms. "Get to it."

He briefly looked at the others again, searching quickly for disapproval or enmity but found only a look of general entertainment and several examples of stifled laughter that quickly stopped when Sigrun spun round at the noise.

"Right, boss." He said, gripping the haft.

She turned back, her dark eyes meeting his. After a moment he smiled wryly and she grinned.

"Good." She nodded, satisfied and went to join the others again.

He watched her go, bemusedly, as he rested the axe over his shoulder. He felt an unfamiliar sort of…twinge in the pit of his stomach for a moment, but pushed it aside before Sigrun felt the need to get a stick and start poking him with it.

"It's your round tonight, right?" He called, joining them.

The surprised look on her face was worth the torrent of dwarven curses that followed.