Disclaimer: Bioware owns Dragon Age and I might as well admit that the OCs are mine.

A/N: A big thanks to Night and Sesh who not only keep me addicted to ToR, but encourage and inspire my muse as well. My world would be much more boring without them.

"Such manners! And always in the last place you look... like stockings!"

Chapter 2

A crisp breeze greeted her as the din of the city faded into the background, the echoes of the Grand Cathedral's bells melting on the empty air. Ashe sighed, welcoming the calm plains ahead, the rolling hills a patchwork quilt of greens and browns as winter and spring collided. The midday sun shone brightly overhead, catching a burst of color and pulling Ashe's attention to a nearby patch of Goldfields. She closed her eyes and inhaled their light scent, lulled into an almost peaceful complacency by the rhythm of her horse. She could feel Ratimir's dark eyes upon her, the question on his lips, but she allowed only an extra moment of peace before turning her attention to matters at hand.

As she suspected, their tail was still behind them, skittering along in the high grasses, invisible save for the occasional slip of the wind. She met her partner's gaze, nodded once, but made no move to hurry their passage. Ashe had no intention of alerting their shadow, nor did she wish to accommodate him. If he was so curious about their company, let him sate his desire at her leisure. Let him prove of what mettle he was made.

The Inquisitor sifted through the memory once more, practicality settling in as she endeavored to detach the frustration of that day.

The morning was overcast, grey clouds hanging low in the sky and a cold mist clinging to her skin. She remembered the pungent stench of sewage, the gutters overflowing from the waste of the city yet again. Ashe had tried to avoid the puddles at first, but as the rain began to fall, it became an exercise in futility. She pulled her cloak tighter about her waist only to find a slippery palm attached to her purse.

He was quick, she gave him that, but Ashe was familiar with the game and tripped him up as he attempted escape. She caught his wrist, small and bony in her hand, and next she caught his surprised glance. Elvish eyes searched for freedom as he struggled, but Ashe's grip was made of iron, leather gloves holding him despite the downpour.

She extended her other hand, palm open and he ceased his struggle. Their eyes met and an understanding passed between them. The thief dropped her purse into her waiting hand and she released her grip on him. He disappeared into the shadowed alleys, escaping the maw of the dungeons with which Ashe would become so familiar.

Her shadow was the same thief. Ashe was certain of it. Even at this distance she could recognize those eyes. Ratimir wouldn't recognize him – couldn't recognize him. She'd not yet rendezvoused with him on that particular mission, but she had shared her tale upon their reunion. He said little, as was his manner, but she had recognized the understanding in his eyes then, as she recognized it now. Ratimir understood. He needn't voice it for her benefit.

They continued apace, little conversation between them as was their custom. No need for noise on the road, especially when foot traffic and trade was minimal. Noise drew attention. Noise drew trouble. Ashe was not a fan of either and Ratimir even less so. She had pieced together the gossip in the dungeons and at their reunion this morn she realized that Ratimir had had more than his share of trouble during the days of her imprisonment. It was writ upon his face.

He was not a handsome man by noble standards, and their relationship held no romantic undertone, but Ashe had found that she enjoyed looking upon his face. He'd lost his hair years before and sported a bald pate under his mail coif for so long as she'd known him. The dark shadow of his stubble was flecked with grey and he'd had a tooth knocked out during one of the sparring sessions. His dark eyes, though, always scanned the horizon, always watched. And Ashe could take comfort in the knowledge that he was always aware – always alert. And now one of those dark eyes was bisected by a long, ragged scar, ranging down the right side of his face.

She didn't question why he had donned his great helm even before they exited the city. Ashe knew him well enough that she need not question his right to privacy, not so much for himself, but for their mission. While the majority of the peasantry was no stranger to the Templar order, most common folk would remember such a scar. While Ashe had no delusions about her ability to remain anonymous, especially in Orlais's convoluted political circles, she would endeavor to remain so for as long as possible. However, best they leave the country posthaste, lest politics ensnare her again.

Politics were trouble.

-O-

Ashe pulled up rein as the sun's rays turned to a deep golden hue, blanketing the lower valleys in shadow. She had led them off the Imperial Highway not three hours earlier, their surreptitious third still trailing at the rear, his presence all but masked by the high grasses. With the sun setting, and her muscles stiff from the ride, Ashe felt it best that they stop for the night. The hills would hide their campsite and obscure any view of a small fire, but they would still need to keep watch. Dangers still roamed the lands even this close to Val Royeaux.

Ratimir followed her lead and dismounted, the two falling into a familiar routine with practiced ease. Ashe scouted the area on foot while Ratimir watered the horses and set the lines. The wind died down to nothing as dusk descended, the crackling twigs of their tiny fire the only noise upon Ashe's return. She had not spotted their tail on her trek, but she didn't expect to find him if he was a thief of any skill. Still, as she set out her bedroll by the fire and finally sat down to help Ratimir with supper, she knew he wasn't far.

Ratimir shooed Ashe away from the blackened pot, the boiling water spilling over the sides, chunks of carrot falling onto the ground. Ashe obeyed even as he grumbled like an old maid, shifting her attention to the growing darkness. Ratimir stirred the pot and pulled it from the fire, setting aside the battered spoon and following Ashe's gaze.

She knew he saw nothing, as did she, but Ratimir stiffened nonetheless. He twisted in his heavy gambeson, the thick fabric pulling taut over his large frame. She watched him as he watched the darkness, the tension in his body unchanged.

"Oy you!" he growled, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling across the grasses like a bucket of stones.

Only silence answered his order, but Ratimir persisted, repeating his command. Again silence responded, but Ashe detected a slight movement in the shadows. Ratimir recognized it as well, but said nothing more.

The duo waited in the light of the small fire, Ashe gnawing on a strip of jerky while Ratimir remained unmoving. The makeshift stew soon cooled, left untended and all but forgotten. Ashe grew annoyed and then tired, her back aching from the ride and the rigid image of Ratimir's statue-like vigil. It was too much for her first night out of the dungeons.

She sighed with irritation and turned her attention to the shadows once more. "Are you going to join our fire, or just lurk in the shadows all night?"

The crackling of their tiny fire answered her query and Ashe almost missed the slight rustling in the night. She popped the last bite of jerky in her mouth and chewed vigorously, her gaze on the approaching shadow. Ratimir's keen eyes remained ever watchful as he reached for the dagger at his belt. Ashe felt no such compunction as she knew this particular shadow could have quite easily remained anonymous, could have attacked them from the darkness at any point, but had not. Ashe and Ratimir remained unmolested and relatively safe, even as the shadow braved the night away from the fire.

Ashe sighed again and studied the approaching figure. He was far too lean, his sharp eyes weary, and his gait was unsurprisingly nimble. He paused at the edge of their camp as if to size up the duo, then dropped unceremoniously onto the ground with a brace of hares. Ashe watched him as he turned his dark eyes on her. She had been correct in her earlier assessment. This was indeed the thief from her memory – the same ragged, dirty elf that failed to steal her purse on her previous stay in Val Royeaux. The Maker must have a sense of irony to saddle him with her now.

The elf blinked once at Ashe and then turned his gaze on Ratimir, his eyes widening in surprise at the battered spoon in his large hands. Ratimir snorted back at him in return, grunting as he stirred the cold stew. Ashe said nothing, but watched the exchange with mild amusement. She was too tired to care about the laws of hospitality and something told her that the elf didn't give a Ferelden turnip about laws whatsoever. He was still on his own so far as she cared, but at least now he was in the open.

Ratimir, however, appeared dissatisfied with their new shadow. He occasionally grumbled into the stew as he tasted it, the random expletive barely discernible to Ashe's trained ears. The elf ignored him for the most part, and even with Ratimir's eyes upon him, whipped out a wickedly sharp knife. The Templar forgot his stew immediately as he reached again for the dagger at his belt, only to freeze as the elf began to skin one of the rabbits he had caught. Ashe saw him frown slightly before tended to his stew once more.

"Runty Elf," he grumbled, plucking a carrot from the spoon. Ashe shot him a sharp look and he said no more that evening. Even the low rumble of his grumbling ceased and Ashe took advantage of the opportunity. With once last glance at the elf, she buried herself in the bedroll and drifted off to sleep.